The Golden Myth
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Convent, a sprawling edifice of limestone and shadow perched on the jagged cliffs of the Irish coast, was alive with the cacophony of a celebration that felt less like joy and more like a fever dream, where the air was thick with the scent of roasted lamb, stale wine, and the damp, saline breath of the ocean that crashed against the rocks below with the...
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