The Wistful Saga
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of Whitehall, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of Eleanor’s bones as she sat rigid in the corner, clutching a small, velvet-lined box that contained nothing but a shard of blue glass, a fragment from the mirror that had hung in the antechamber of the old palace before the fire, a piece of her mother’s reflection that had...
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