The Golden Visit
The velvet box sits in your palm, heavier than its gold contents should be, a dense, cold weight that presses against the meat of your hand until the skin whiteness blooms beneath the fingernails. You are standing in the office of Lord Vane, a room that smells of beeswax and old paper, where the light from the high windows catches the dust motes swirling in the stagnant air. Three years you...
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