The Golden Mirror
The ink was still wet on the ledger when Orla Nolan felt the gold beneath her fingertips, a warmth that had no business existing in the damp cellar of the Mayo archive, where the air tasted of peat smoke and rotting paper. She had been cataloguing the ship’s manifests for the lost Cormorant, her hands steady and dry despite the drizzle that had persisted for ten days, a weather that the farmers...
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