The Wistful Petal
The glass at ninety-six of Stonecutter Alley did not reflect the room; it held the room for a second, then let it go. I stood in the corner of the party, holding a glass of cheap wine that tasted of iron and regret, watching the crowd move through the Glass House. The air was heavy with wet wool and expensive perfume, a mixture that hung heavy in the cold air of the polder settlement. Hendrik...
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