THE DYING OF THE LIGHT
Act I -- The Bloom The townhouse in Bloomsbury smelled of exotic flowers and old books and something else -- something metallic and electric, like the air before a thunderstorm. Florence Mercer pushed open the front door and stepped into a gallery of decay. Julian Ashworth greeted her from a chaise lounge near the window. He was beautiful in the way that sick people sometimes are -- pale skin...
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