The Wistful Letter
Act I Concepcion Herrera was twelve years old, and the left hand of my body was the only thing in the banquet hall that did not belong to me, a fact I tried to ignore while the wine warmed the air and the shadows lengthened against the wet stone walls. The Grand Banquet was a disaster of whispers and damp wool, the ceiling dripping condensation onto the silver platters, and everyone was looking...
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