The Wistful Asylum
The ledger said three pounds of royal honey, two dozen eggs, and enough butter to grease a cathedral. You weighed the honey first, the golden liquid trembling in the brass scale, watching the needle dip and hold. It was a ritual of precision that kept the noise of the kitchen at bay. You were Elias Thorne, master baker to the Crown, and you had forty-two years of flour-dusted hands and a...
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