The Wistful Letter
The feast was a riot of gold and blood. Torches sputtered in the high vaults of the cathedral. Shadows danced on the stained glass, turning saints into monsters and monsters into saints. The air was thick with the scent of roasting boar, spilled wine, and the heavy, cloying perfume of lilies. Margaret Holloway sat at the head of the long table, her crown heavy on her brow. It was not a crown of...
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