The Distant Ghost
The feast hall of Westminster stank of roasted swan and spilled wine, a thick, cloying sweetness that coated the back of Thomas Vane’s throat. He stood in the shadow of a pillar, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened, watching the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Geoffrey Blackwood, laugh at a jest that was not funny. Blackwood was a man of geometry and law, his face a sharp angle...
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