The Wistful Dinner
The air in the great hall of the Whitehall Palace, a structure that seemed to exist in a perpetual state of twilight between the gaslit age and the steam-driven future, was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of old gold, and I stood before the High Chancellor, my uniform immaculate yet feeling as though it were made of wet sand, my hands trembling not from the cold...
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