The Golden Farce
The letter from the Royal Treasury lay on the drafting table, its seal broken, the ink still wet where the clerk had scrawled the final date. It was a bill, not a contract, detailing the precise deduction of your pension should the observatory not stand by the summer solstice. You read it twice, the numbers blurring into a grid that mirrored the floor tiles beneath your boots. The air in the...
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