The Distant Garden
The hall smelled of roasted goose and old stone. You sat at the long table. Your hands were steady. They were always steady. That was the point. You were a prisoner of your own calm. Across the room, Governor Halloway raised his glass. He did not look at you. He looked at the chandelier. He looked at the shadows. He looked at the future. "To the order," he said. His voice was soft. It cut...
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