The Wistful Dinner
The Great Hall of Ashworth Manor did not smell of roast pheasant or spiced wine, as the chroniclers of the old world might have sworn, but of iron filings and wet, cold earth. It was a smell that clung to the back of the throat, a metallic tang that overpowered the scent of the rosewater vinegar on the taffy and the heavy, cloying perfume of the ladies’ gloves. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the head...
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