The Distant Metropolis
We had gathered to celebrate the end of the harvest, a season that had been brutal in its brevity and generous in its scarcity, and the air in the great hall of the old manor was thick with the smoke of tallow candles and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted pork and spilled wine, yet I sat apart from the revelry, my eyes fixed not on the dancing couples or the laughing elders but on the single,...
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