The Distant Temple
The banquet hall of the Abbey of St. Jude smelled of roasting lamb, stale ale, and the cloying sweetness of overripe pears. It was a night of heavy velvet and heavier silence, the kind that settles in the lungs of a room full of men who have forgotten how to breathe without calculation. Margaret Holloway sat at the end of the long oak table, her fingers laced tight around the stem of a wine...
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