The Wistful Witness
The ink was already wet on the parchment before Elias Thorne looked up from the silver platter, his gaze sliding across the crowded table to meet the eyes of the man in grey who sat at the head of the long oak bench, a figure so still he seemed less like a guest and more like a shadow cast by the candelabra. "You’re hesitating, Elias." The host’s voice was dry, like leaves skittering over...
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