The Distant Crown
The banquet hall of the Whitmore & Sons Foundry smelled of roasted lamb and coal dust, a scent that had become the very marrow of my bones over the last ten years. We were celebrating the completion of the new blast furnace, a towering iron monstrosity that stood against the gray November sky like a jagged tooth in the mouth of the earth. The tables were long, draped in white linen that looked...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen