The Golden Farce
"You will burn the plates by noon, or I will have you flogged for theft." Vasily Mikhailov did not look up. His hands were buried in the soot of the Imperial Printing House, the air thick with the metallic tang of molten lead and the damp rot of the neglected botanical greenhouse that had been converted into an archive. The summer the wells had failed, the heat in the town had turned the stone...
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