The Wistful Grid
The debt is three shillings and sixpence. I have said it three times to Lord Harrow, and he has not said it back. He stands by the hearth, the iron tools hanging in a rusted row above the fire, the tongs, the poker, the skimmer, the ladle. They catch the light and throw it back in jagged shards. I am forty years old. My back aches from the morning drills, the heavy sword work that leaves the...
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