The Wistful Dinner
The brass compass in your hand is warm, hotter than the iron trestle table beneath it, and the needle spins with a frantic, sickly jerking motion that suggests it is trying to find north but is terrified of what it might find. You are sitting in the dining room of the Whitmore estate, a place that exists in the hollow between the years of the great industrial expansion and the quiet, grey dawn...
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