The Distant Legend
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Preservation of Natural History smelled of roasted pheasant and old varnish, a cloying mixture that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent cough. I sat at the long mahogany table, my hands folded neatly over the linen, watching the steam rise from the silver tureens in slow, deliberate spirals. The air was thick with the hum of...
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