The Wistful Petal
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Internal Order did not smell of food, as one might expect from a room designated for the celebration of state dinners, but rather of damp plaster, old copper, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that clung to the walls like a second skin, a scent that Margaret Holloway had come to associate with the particular flavor of institutional decay, a rot that...
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