The Wistful Dinner
The air in the Great Hall of the King’s summer palace did not smell of incense or old stone, as the histories insisted it must, but of wet wool and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. It was a scent that hung heavy in the vaulted air, pressing against the temples, a physical weight that Edmund Vane felt in the hollows of his cheeks. He stood before the dais, a figure of modest stature in a tunic...
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