The Wistful Dinner
The document was a single sheet of heavy cream paper, its edges frayed and soft as cloth, held in Elias Thorne’s trembling hands. He had forged it three nights ago in the cramped attic of a boarding house that smelled of damp wool and boiled turnips, using ink mixed with soot and vinegar to mimic the deep blue-black of the state seal. The paper was worth nothing, but the stamp upon it was worth...
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