The Wistful Dinner
The carriage rocks. You count the bumps in the cobblestone. One, two, three. The rhythm is a metronome for your pulse. Outside the window, the rain blurs the gaslights of London into smears of yellow and grey. You are not a passenger. You are a prisoner of the glass. Your hands rest on your lap. They are steady. They must be steady. The destination is the Abbey of St. Jude’s. It is not a...
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