The Wistful Dinner
The rain had not stopped for three days, and the stone walls of the keep wept with a steady, rhythmic drip that sounded like the counting of hours in a prison cell. Thomas sat at the long oak table, his hands wrapped around a cup of ale that had gone warm and stale, while across from him, Eleanor cut her bread with a knife that seemed too small for the task. The room was dark, save for the...
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