The Golden Farce
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in gray sheets against the high windows of the garrison, turning the cobblestones slick and black. You stood by the wall, your hands wrapped around a cup of cold tea. The cup was chipped. You had carried it from your father’s house before the fever took him. It was the only thing you had left that did not smell of iron or blood. You were a guard....
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