The Golden Song
The fire in the hearth was high, consuming the dry oak logs with a hungry crackle that filled the room with a warm, dusty smell. We had gathered at the Ashworth estate for the annual winter solstice dinner, a tradition my father had started forty years ago, a time when the world outside was too dark and cold to look at, so we looked inward. The table was long, draped in white linen that seemed...
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