The Wistful Dinner
Act I “You have no right to sit at my table, Dumas,” the Minister said, his voice flat and cold as the cellar air that rose through the floorboards of the banquet hall. Gustave Dumas, forty-two years old and wearing a suit that had been tailored for a man with ten fingers, did not look up from the plate before him. The room was vast, built from the stone of dead volcanoes, and the chandeliers...
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