The Faded Dust
The hall smelled of roasted pork and wet wool, a heavy, cloying scent that seemed to settle in the back of the throat like a stone, and I stood there with a glass of mulled wine in my hand, watching the smoke from the hearth curl up into the rafters where the shadows danced in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that had nothing to do with the music playing on the other side of the room. Everyone was...
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