The Golden Crossing
Chapter One In the olive estates of the sixties, gold was not a color but a debt. Mercedes Salazar sat at the loom in the high tower, her fingers numb from the cold that seeped through the stone. The High Steward, a man named Don Ignacio, stood in the doorway. He did not look at the silk. He looked at her hands. "You have not bled," he said. "It is a test of skill," Mercedes replied. Her voice...
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