The Golden Cellar
The valley of Ouro Preto held its breath. Bernardino Zuzarte arrived on a mule, the pack heavy with his tools: the wooden shuttle, the steel combs, the spindles, and the shears that had cut three hundred yards of wool without dulling. He was thirty-four, a master weaver from the highlands, and he owed the bank a sum that would take him a decade to clear. The Baroness had promised a coin. Not...
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