The Wistful Throne
She found it behind a wall of damp plaster, half-consumed by black mold and time—the letter, sealed with wax the colour of dried blood, addressed to one Cecily Vane in a hand so sharp it seemed to cut the paper. Eleanor Marsham held it to the single window of the attic, where London light bled through in pale ribbons, and for a long time she did nothing but stare at the name she had inherited...
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