The Distant Garden
The soup was served in bowls made of cracked porcelain, the handles chipped until they looked like broken teeth, and Elias Vane stood at the head of the table, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping his smile fixed in place, watching his mother, Clara, reach for the salt with a hand that trembled like a leaf in a gale. He had spent three weeks forging the commission papers, hunching over...
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