The Wistful Skyline
The air in the dining room was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and stale lavender, a cloying perfume that seemed to cling to the curtains, to the velvet drapes, to the very bones of the house. Elias stood at the edge of the long mahogany table, his hands resting lightly on the polished surface, watching the condensation bead on the crystal decanter of claret. He was a man of fifty,...
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