The Golden Master
The feast is not a meal but a siege, a slow, golden siege of the senses where the air is thick with the scent of roasted pork and stale wine, and you sit at the far end of the long oak table, your hands trembling beneath the linen, because you know that in the flickering candlelight, your reflection in the polished silver of the chalice does not look like a husband but like a ghost, a hollow...
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