The Wistful Petal
Thorne. The voice came from the high gallery, a sharp crack that cut through the humid air of the Duke’s new chapel, and Elias Thorne turned, his back stiff against the weight of the scaffolding he had been climbing since dawn. He was forty years old, a master glazier of modest renown in the county, and he stood there in the opulent hall, surrounded by the scent of beeswax and old stone, while...
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