The Golden Master
The draft came from the chimney, but it did not smell of woodsmoke, only of wet stone and old iron. "Is it playing up again, Elias?" Thorne asked, not looking up from the ledger he was balancing on his knee. He was a man of fifty, with hands like cured leather and a voice that had long since learned to speak in the low, reassuring register of someone who knew exactly where the bodies were...
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