The Wistful Dinner
Constance Hollis held the letter in her hands, the parchment stiff and cold against her palms. It was a simple document, sealed with the Bishop’s wax, but the seal was wrong. The lion looked too round, the crown too flat, and the texture of the paper felt like skin that had been dried too quickly. She stood at the gate of St. Jude’s, the isolated monastery perched on the rocky outcrop above the...
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