The Wistful Show
The rain did not fall so much as it besieged, a grey curtain drawn tight against the high, arched windows of the Hall of Echoes. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp stone and old dust, a perfume of decay that Margaret Holloway had come to breathe in as naturally as the air itself. She stood before the Grand Mirror, not to view her reflection, but to argue with it. The glass was...
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