The lamp was low, and the gold was heavy. Thomas Bradshaw sat alone in the chancery, the King’s Seal in his palm, and the winter wind sent a fine ash against the window glass. Outside, the river was black. Inside, the ink had dried on the last writ of the season, and the seal lay like a sun struck dead.
He thought of his sister then. He always did when the room went quiet.
“Thomas,” she would...
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