The Wistful Throne
It is not the brass that interests them, Elias. It is the stone. The boy’s voice was high, cracked with a fear that had nothing to do with the cold air of the workshop, and he pressed his back against the doorframe as if the hinges themselves might collapse. I was holding a pair of tweezers so fine they could pick a hair from a cat’s eye, and my hands were shaking so badly I dropped them into...
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