The Motherless Warden
ACT I: THE RISE The cough began in November and never left her. Eleanor Ashworth felt it settle deep in her chest like wet coal, heavy and permanent, and she wrapped her shawl tighter against the Manchester fog that seeped through the cracks of her narrow alleyway shop. At sixty-two, her hands were maps of a life spent at the sewing machine—knotted knuckles, scarred fingertips, nails filed...
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