The Angel’s Share is warm and hazy, the kind of warm that comes from too many bodies in too small a space and the cheap lantern oil burning low in the sconces. The air smells like oak, spilled dandelion wine, and something faintly metallic that could be old blood or just good old-fashioned rust. The floorboards are scarred from years of boots and dropped mugs, and the single window is fogged over from the condensation of a dozen conversations.