The Gilded March of Lord Harrington
The horse did not die dramatically. It simply stopped, folded its legs beneath it, and collapsed in the dust of the Epsom racecourse, taking Percival Harrington with it in a tangle of silk and leather and regret. Percival remembered the impact. He remembered the sound of his own ribs cracking. He remembered the faces of the crowd above him, distorted by distance and shock, like figures in a...
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