The Wistful Throne
The rain had been falling on the roof of the Whitmore estate for three days, a steady, grey drumming that turned the world outside into a blur of wet slate and dying leaves. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasting lamb and the sharper, metallic tang of old money changing hands. It was a dinner party, or at least, it was supposed to be one. But the guests, a constellation of...
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