The Wistful Silence
The table groaned under the weight of the silver platters. Roast pheasant, glazed with honey and juniper. A tower of cream puffs, dusted with sugar until they looked like snowdrifts. The air was thick, cloying, heavy with the steam of the kitchen and the perfume of old roses that Margot had arranged in the vase at the center of the table. It was a feast. It was also a cage. Margot sat at the...
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