The Distant Crown
The rain had turned the cobblestones of the lower district into a slick, black mirror, reflecting the gaslights in long, trembling strokes that looked like veins of light under skin. Thomas Ashworth stood at the window of the small, rented room above the chandler’s shop, watching the water drip from the eaves in a rhythmic, relentless count, his fingers drumming against the cold glass with a...
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