The Faded Shield
The shield did not hang on any wall. It lay in a shallow wooden crate, wrapped in brown paper that smelled of the sort of dust which accumulates only in rooms that have never been opened. Thomas Ellery found it on a Tuesday, three months after the funeral, three months after the house on Harcourt Lane had stopped making Marguerite's sounds. He was forty-two, a translator of Old French legal...
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