The Golden Suspect

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2026-08-17 12:43:30 -

The fire started in the east wing. It ate the tapestries and the beams with a hunger that seemed ancient. It was a Tuesday. The sky above the manor was the color of a bruise, swollen and purple. Margaret stood on the balcony. She watched the smoke rise. It did not smell of wood. It smelled of iron. It smelled of old blood. The house was her. The house was her mother. The house was her father....

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