The Wistful Throne
The left knee of Thomas Ashworth had begun to ache before the first snow of December, a dull, persistent throb that mirrored the grinding of the mill gears outside his window. He sat in the high-backed chair of the Governor’s office, a room that smelled of old paper and damp wool, and watched the dust motes dance in the thin shaft of light cutting through the frost-rimmed glass. The knee was a...
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