The Wistful Saga
The rain fell upon the ramparts of Castle Ashworth not as water, but as a fine, persistent grey dust that settled into the creases of the stone and the deep, dark folds of Sir Thomas Bradshaw’s woolen surcoat, a garment that had been stitched with such care by his mother’s deft hands in the village of Kettering that it seemed less a piece of clothing and more an extension of his own skin, a...
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