The Wistful Dinner
The candlelight in the dining room of Elias Thorne’s home on Mill Lane did not flicker, for there was no draft to disturb it, and the air was too still, too thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of the pocket watch that hung from his waistcoat. It was the winter of 1893, and Elias, forty years old and possessed of a face that seemed carved from the same pale stone as...
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