The Wistful Throne
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the manicured lawns of Ashworth Manor into a slurry of brown mud and broken reeds. I stood by the window in the study, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the water drip from the eaves in a rhythmic, monotonous pluck that seemed to count out...
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