The Iron and the Embers
ACT I The body was pulled from the River Irwell at dawn. Lydia Ashworth, age twenty-nine, had been in the water long enough for the cold to rearrange her features into something the man who loved her would not recognize. Edward Ashworth stood on the bank in his black wool coat, his face a mask of the kind of composure that is not composure at all but the absence of everything else. The mill...
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