The Wistful Throne
"Is it done?" Thomas did not look up from the stone. His hands were caked in gray dust. "Not yet." The voice came from the shadows of the nave. It was Eleanor. She stood by the pillar, her silhouette sharp against the dim light. She did not move. She rarely moved. She waited. "Tell me, Thomas. Is it done?" He wiped his forehead with a rag. The sweat stung his eyes. "The mortar is setting. We...
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