The Golden Ritual
The gold is gone, Jan. Elias Thorne did not shout. He stood in the shadow of the north transept, his back pressed against the rough-hewn sandstone of the unfinished pillar, and he spoke the words with the flat, weary cadence of a man reading a bill he could not pay. The air in the cathedral nave smelled of wet lime, damp wool, and the metallic tang of old iron. It was November, 1912, and the...
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