The Wistful Throne
The feast in the Great Hall of the Abbey of St. Jude’s was not a celebration of joy but a grim acknowledgment of endurance, the air thick with the cloying scent of roasted goose, spiced wine, and the damp, earthy rot that seeped up from the flagstones where the autumn rains had begun to breach the ancient mortar. Margaret sat at the lower table, her hands folded in her lap so tightly that the...
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