The Golden Myth
The feast hall of Castle Ashworth smelled of roasted goose and wet wool, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the throat. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his hands folded in his lap, watching the steam rise from the tureen as if it were a ghost returning to its home. He was the court physician, a man whose hands had stitched the flesh of kings and plucked the pus from...
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