The Golden Farce
Thomas. The name was called out by the steward, a sharp bark that cut through the low hum of the banquet hall. Sir Thomas Bradshaw looked up from his plate. The candlelight caught the rim of his silver tankard, distorting his face into a smudge of gold and shadow. He was forty years old, and he felt the weight of that number in his joints, a dull ache in the knees that wine could no longer...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen