The Wistful Dinner
The needle of the phonograph pressed into the grooved wax with a soft, wet hiss, and Elara Vane’s hand trembled so violently that the stylus skipped a beat, leaving a jagged scar in the recording. She steadied herself against the cold brass arm of the machine, her knuckles white, the damp chill of the palace basement seeping through the thin wool of her gloves. Across the room, Lord Ashworth...
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