The Distant Affair
The feast was loud. Too loud. Candlelight flickered. Shadows danced. Margaret sat. She watched. The hall smelled of roasting pig. Of stale wine. Of sweat. She wore a shawl. Wool. Grey. Thin. It was old. Frayed at the edges. She touched it. Constantly. The fabric whispered. "Look at her," said the steward. He leaned close. His breath was sour. "The grey ghost. Always touching that rag." Margaret...
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