The Wistful Dinner
"You have to decide, Silas. Right now. Before the sauce curdles and the table cools." The voice did not come from the left. It did not come from the right. It came from the center of the room, a place where the air was thick with the scent of roasted thyme and the metallic tang of old blood. I looked up. Margaret was standing by the oven, her hands covered in flour that looked like ash against...
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