The Wistful Throne
The candle flame leaned sharply to the left, a thin, trembling tongue of fire that illuminated the dust motes swirling in the stagnant air of the library, and it was this erratic movement of the light, more than the silence, that told Thomas Vane the room had shifted again. He stood with his back against the heavy oak door, his left hand pressed flat against the wood to steady his breathing,...
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