The Wistful Throne
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, grey silt that caked the cobblestones and seeped into the marrow of anyone foolish enough to walk the High Street without a proper cloak, and it was in this damp, suffocating quiet that I first noticed the discrepancy in the ledger of the Magistrate’s office, a discrepancy so small it was easily overlooked by anyone who...
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