The Faded Chronicle
The roast pheasant was carved with a precision that bordered on ritual, the knife gliding through the crisp skin to reveal meat that was perfectly pink, a testament to the hours I had spent in the kitchen ensuring that Mr. Vane’s dinner was not merely a meal but an assertion of my competence. I stood at the head of the long oak table in the mill’s grand hall, the air thick with the scent of...
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