The Wistful Throne
The rain lashed against the leaded glass of the refectory window, a relentless, grey drumbeat that seemed to synchronize with the hollow pounding of Thomas Bradshaw’s heart. He sat at the long oak table, the wood worn smooth by centuries of penitent elbows, his hands clasped so tightly around a cup of cold tea that his knuckles had turned the color of old bone. The tea had gone bitter hours...
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