The Wistful Dinner
The fire in the hearth of the manor at Blackwood Hollow did not roar so much as it exhaled, a long, rattling sigh of ash and dying wood that seemed to pull the very breath from the marrow of the old woman’s bones, leaving her hollowed out and trembling in the heavy, velvet-draped silence of the great hall. Elara Vane sat in her high-backed chair, the wood of which had been worn smooth by three...
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