The Faded Root
The champagne flute felt cold and slick in Marjorie Norrington’s hand, the crystal thin enough to let the chandelier’s light bleed through to her palm. She stood near the edge of the banquet hall, twenty feet from the stage where Director Halloway was accepting the plaque for twenty years of "efficient service," while her other hand, hidden in the pocket of her wool coat, clutched a dried,...
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