The Wistful Dinner
The candles on the long oak table burned down to the wick, consuming a pound of tallow an hour, a cost that Elias Thorne calculated in the quiet ledger of his mind as he sat amidst the wreckage of the feast. It was November of 1893, and the air in the Thorne ancestral manor was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of ozone that had begun to seep from the small, black...
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