The Distant Summer
"You’re wasting the good stock, Elias." The voice cut through the humid air of the kitchen, sharp as a knife against bone. It was Julian. He stood in the doorway, his hands tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat, his face a mask of polite indifference that only served to make his eyes look colder. The kitchen was a war zone of steam and grease, the copper pots hanging from the ceiling like...
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