The Distant Affair
"Do you think it’s just tarnish, Elias?" Thomas asks, his voice low, cutting through the damp air of the scullery. He stands by the sink, scrubbing a copper pan with a rough cloth, the metal singing against the water. I do not look up from the silver. My hands are wrapped around the base of the candelabra, the cold metal biting into my palms. It is a heavy thing, five arms twisted into the...
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