The Golden Farce
The ink was cold, a damp sludge that seeped into the whorls of your fingerprints and refused to dry, clinging to the skin of your hands as you pressed the water-damaged page of Abbot Thorne’s ledger against the blotter. You were Elias, forty-two, a senior archivist at the St. Jude’s Historical Society, and you wanted nothing more than to secure your position by cataloging this newly acquired...
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