The Golden Farce
Warden Lester Hoyt pressed his thumb into the cold, damp glass of the ancestral mirror, the pressure a sharp, localized pain that bloomed into a visible purple bruise on the surface, a trick of the light that the Bureau of Anomalous Heritage had documented in triplicate but refused to explain. He stood in the center of the drawing room, the air heavy with wet wool and the metallic tang of old...
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