A plate arrived at Lord Harrington's table that made silence spread through the room like a rumor.
It was a beef bourguignon, dark as polished mahogany, sitting in a porcelain bowl the color of old ivory. Steam rose from it in thin grey threads, carrying the scent of red wine and thyme and something else—something that had no name in the language of cooking, but that every person in the room recognized immediately. It was the smell of being known. Lord Harrington lifted his spoon. The...
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