The Wistful Dinner
The chandelier above the long mahogany table was not a chandelier at all, but a cage of glass, a suspended constellation of cut crystal that caught the gaslight and threw it in fractured, icy shards across the faces of the men who sat in judgment of me. I held the object in my hands, a small, intricate thing of porcelain and silver, a clockwork heart I had spent three years perfecting in my...
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