The Wistful Show
The needle slid through the wool with a resistance that felt like pushing a finger into cold clay, and Elias Thorne’s wrist, wrapped in linen bandages to hide the tremor, held the tension steady. The light in the Royal Workshop was the pale, washed-out grey of a morning that had not yet decided whether it would rain, casting long, thin shadows across the floorboards where the dust lay...
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