The Distant Nightmare
The air in the Great Hall of St. Jude’s Preparatory Academy smelled of beeswax and old money, a cloying perfume that seemed to hang in the stagnant warmth of the November afternoon. Twelve-year-old Julian stood by the heavy oak doors, his tie knotted with a precision that belied his trembling hands, watching the faculty circle the long mahogany table. They were a constellation of tweed and...
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