The Wistful Dinner
The candle burned down to a stub of tallow, its flame guttering in the draft that seeped through the keyhole of the heavy oak door. Roland Harkness counted the hours, one by one, on the rough texture of the parchment before him. Twelve until the solstice. Twelve until the deadline Lord Ashcroft had set for the submission of the royal pardon. If the document did not bear the King’s seal by...
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