The Golden Myth
"The gold is in the base, Elias. It’s not in the leaf." Silas’s voice was flat, stripped of the deference he usually wore like a clean apron. Elias did not look up from the mortar. The pestle ground the cinnabar into a fine red dust, the sound a dry, rhythmic rasping that filled the small, damp cellar. The air smelled of sulfur and old stone. Outside, the wind off the moor was picking up,...
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