The Faded Root
The banquet hall of the Whitmore estate was a cavern of gaslight and velvet, a place where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of old blood, and it was here, amidst the clinking of silverware against porcelain that had been passed down through seven generations of men who believed they owned the very concept of time, that Arthur Penhaligon stood as a...
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