The Distant Metropolis
The heavy oak doors of the Royal Mews creaked with a groan that seemed to resonate in the marrow of Edward Ashworth’s bones, a sound that was less a mechanical failure and more the exhalation of a century’s accumulated weight, and he stood there, his hands trembling not from the biting November cold that seeped through the thick wool of his coat but from the terrifying, electric proximity of...
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