The Distant Affair
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a taste. It was the copper tang of blood in the back of Thomas Whitmore’s mouth, a flavor he had carried for forty years. He sat in the high-backed chair of the war room, the air thick with the scent of stale pipe tobacco and the rotting sweetness of overripe pears. The pears were on the long oak table, a golden offering to the generals who had just...
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