The Wistful Throne
The pot of honey had been on the shelf for forty years, and it was beginning to crack. It was not a large jar, nor was it made of crystal or porcelain. It was a simple vessel of thick, green glass, the kind that used to hold preserves in the kitchens of the old manor houses before the wars and the winters took the orchards. The lid was rusted shut, a circle of orange decay against the pale wood...
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