The Wistful Throne
Chapter One Cormac Joyce had forty years of service and a pair of hands that no longer bent where he wished. He was re-shelving the mid-century dairy records in the windowless archive room at the back of the old manor, the air thick with the dry, papery scent of decay and the faint, metallic taste of his own exhaustion. The light from the single bare bulb above him was yellow and flat, casting...
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