The Wistful Grid

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2026-08-19 20:49:36 -

The Wistful Grid

The ink was still wet when the door opened. It smelled of wet wool and cold stone. Margaret did not look up. She was writing. The quill scratched against the parchment. A rhythmic, dry sound. Like a bone breaking slowly. Lord Ashworth stood in the doorway. His shadow fell across the desk. It was a long, thin thing. It stretched toward her hand. "You are late," he said. His voice was soft. It...

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