The Wistful Throne
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray drizzle that turned the gravel paths of Ashwood Manor into a slurry of mud and decay, and you stood in the center of the east wing, your hands buried in the wet, tangled roots of the ancient wisteria that choked the brickwork, listening to the low, humming murmur that only you could hear, a sound like wind through dry reeds that...
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