The Wistful Throne
In the hollow of Arthur Penhaligon’s palm lay a brass key, cold and heavy, its teeth worn smooth by decades of indifferent turning. He stood on the threshold of Vane House, a sprawling edifice of brick and soot that loomed against the grey November sky like a bruise that would not heal. The air here did not smell of the damp earth he was accustomed to, but of coal dust, old paper, and the...
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