The Golden Mirror
The ledger was heavy. Not just in weight, which was considerable, but in the density of the ink, the blackness of the entries that seemed to pull the light out of the archive room. Arthur Penhaligon held it in both hands, his fingers white-knuckled, the paper edges sharp against his palms. He was thirty-four, a junior archivist at the Whitmore Estate, and he had wanted this permanent position...
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