The Golden Harbor
The soup was cold, and the candlelight made the grease on the surface look like a skin of amber. “Is it done?” Lord Vane asked, his voice low and wet, as if he were speaking through a mouthful of the stew. He did not look at Elias. He looked at the bowl, turning it with a silver spoon that had been polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the distorted faces of the men around the table. Elias...
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