The Golden Farce
Chapter One Tao Yang had thirty-two years on the books, a mortgage called in early, and a pair of boots that leaked at the left toe. He stood on the quay at fifty-eight of NineElm Crossing, the concrete slick with the morning’s damp, watching the steam rise from the fish market where the mulberry trees bent low over the water. The air smelled of bleach and rotting kelp, a sharp, medicinal tang...
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