The Pale Tale
The air in the back room of The Gilded Spoon hung thick and sweet, a cloying perfume of burnt sugar, old coffee, and the metallic tang of anxiety that seemed to seep from the pores of everyone gathered there, a communal exhale that was less a breath and more a held scream waiting for permission to break, while Margaret Holloway sat with her hands folded so tightly in her lap that the knuckles...
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