The Golden Farce
The brass thermometer in your hand reads a hundred and four, the mercury column trembling with a violence that seems to match the heat radiating from your own left palm. You stand in the antechamber of the imperial sickroom, the air thick with the scent of camphor and stale lavender, waiting for the door to open so you can attend to the King’s wasting cough. Your right hand holds the...
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