The Wistful Mirror
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Displaced and the Destitute was a cathedral of brass and mahogany, its air thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, spilled wine, and the stale, metallic tang of institutional despair that no amount of lavender sachets could quite scrub from the pores of the wood. Thomas Bradshaw, a junior archivist whose hands were perpetually stained with the...
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