The Wistful Dinner
The rain drummed a relentless, industrial rhythm against the slate roof of the manor, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the bones of the staff rather than merely striking the glass. Elias Thorne stood by the service entrance, his boots heavy with the slurry of wet earth, watching the last of the guests’ carriages disappear into the grey curtain of the night. He was a man of forty-two,...
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