The Golden Mirror
The feast at the Abbey of St. Jude was not a celebration of harvest, but a quiet, suffocating ritual of containment, where the air grew thick with the scent of roasted lamb and beeswax candles that burned with a pale, sickly steadiness. Marguerite sat at the far end of the long oak table, her hands folded in her lap, watching the steam rise from the tureen of broth that she had not touched. The...
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