The Golden Master
My fingers were stained to the second knuckle, the ink of the Golden Master drying into a rust-colored crust that no amount of scrubbing with pumice and lye could lift. I was forty years old, and my hands looked like they belonged to a man who had been digging graves in the dark for a decade. The study smelled of mildew and the sharp, metallic tang of the vellum I had spent the last ten years...
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