The Pale Verdict
The feast was loud. Candles gutted. Wax ran like tears. Eleanor sat still. She watched the ink. A black pool. Spreading on the table. It was not wine. It was not water. It was a mark. A seal. Pressed into the linen. By whose hand? No one asked. The guests ate. They laughed. They drank. The hall smelled of roasts and old stone. Eleanor stared at the spot. It was her name. Or so she thought. A...
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