The Wistful Throne
What does a man owe the dead? Leszek Wojcik woke with the taste of iron in his mouth, the dream of the withered oak still clinging to his eyelids like wet wool. He was forty, a scribe by trade, a debt collector by necessity, and the light in the room was the gray, physical fact of a Kraków winter. Elżbieta coughed in the next room, a wet, rattling sound that stopped his heart. He knew what the...
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