The Wistful Dinner
The bell tower collapsed at the stroke of nine. It did not fall with the thunderous violence of a storm, but with the sickening, bone-deep groan of a giant dying in its sleep. The stone, ancient and pocked by centuries of rain, shifted. Dust, thick as grey snow, poured down into the courtyard of the Abbey of St. Jude. Thomas Ashworth stood in the shadow of the ruined nave, his hand still...
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