The Wistful Saga
The tea was cold, and it had been cold for an hour, a stagnant pool of dark amber that reflected the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light cutting through the high, arched window of the chamberlain’s office. I watched the surface, my reflection warped and unrecognizable, a smudge of grey wool and hollow eyes, while across the mahogany desk, Lord Pemberton’s fingers drummed a rhythm that...
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