The Golden Harbor
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Orphanage did not smell of roasts or wine, but of damp wool and the metallic tang of fear. It was a long, narrow room beneath the main dormitory, lit by a single, trembling gaslight that cast elongated, skeletal shadows against the peeling wallpaper. The table, scarred by decades of restless elbows, held only a few plates of cold porridge and a pitcher of...
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