The Wistful Throne
The light in the workshop at one hundred and twenty-six of Gallows Corner was the color of old dishwater, a flat, industrial grey that made Manuel Henriques’ hands look like those of a fishmonger who had forgotten to wash the blood off his knuckles. He stood before the copper still, the smell of burnt sugar and vinegar thick in the air, while the north wind outside rattled the loose windowpanes...
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