The Wistful Dinner
The pheasant is ready, and the knife in your hand feels like a piece of bone. You stand in the center of the kitchen, the heat of the oven pressing against your chest, the air thick with the scent of roasting fat and the specific, heavy sweetness of the honey you have saved for three years. Lord Blackwood enters. He does not knock. He never knocks. He stands in the doorway, a silhouette against...
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