The Golden Master
Act I Ashok Mukherjee’s hands were already deep in the velvet lining of the confiscated coat, fingers prying at the torn seam where the gold brooch had been stitched, when the door to the customs house swung open with a creak that sounded like a rope bridge straining under a heavy load. The light in the room was low, the kind that pools in corners during the late afternoon of the two fine...
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