The Distant Clue
The white lily sat in the palm of your hand, its petals unblemished and stiff against the cold of the winter air, a stark contrast to the squalor of the room you had just vacated. You, Thomas Bradshaw, a scribe of thirty years who had spent the better part of a decade ink-staining his fingers for the Crown, stood now on the cobblestones outside the royal palace, dismissed for a clerical error...
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