The Wistful Throne
Act I Lucia D’Angelo remembered the weight of the badge before she remembered the taste of the champagne. She stood at the center of the gala, the air heavy with roasted pork and old money, her hand resting on the small, square pin at her collar. It felt cold against her skin, a metal anchor in a sea of silk. She was thirty-four, and the city had promised her the chair. Inspector Vane, her...
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