The Golden Ritual
The spoon scraped against the bottom of the porcelain bowl, a sharp, metallic shriek that cut through the stifling heat of the ward. Arthur Penhaligon did not look up from his ledger, though his hand, the one holding the nib, had begun to tremble so violently that the ink bled into the paper, turning the column of daily rations into a smudge of black grief. He was a clerk, a man of numbers and...
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