Excerpt
PROLOGUE - THE MAN IN THE CHAIR THE PLAY WAS fine. Kinda funny. A little dated. But hey, it beat another night at the War Office. Lincoln wasn’t even supposed to be here — he’d been working himself half to death for four years straight. But Mary asked, and he said yes. He needed the break. America had just barely survived ripping itself in half. Richmond had fallen. Lee had surrendered. The Union held. For the first time in years, Abraham Lincoln could breathe. So there he sat, slouched a little in his chair, long legs folded awkward, watching Our American Cousin from the presidential box. The man looked older than his 56 years — more bone than flesh, all shadow and sharpness. His face...