The Wistful Dinner
The Great Hall of Ashworth Manor smelled of roasted pheasant, beeswax, and the metallic tang of old blood. It was a scent that had permeated the very stone over three centuries, a perfume of decay masked by the heavy, cloying sweetness of spiced wine. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands folded neatly over the silver plate, though his fingers were white-knuckled,...
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