The Faded Apartment
The banquet hall of the Ashworth Manor did not smell of roasted pheasant or spiced wine, though the tables were groaning under the weight of silver platters and crystal goblets that caught the light of the thousand tallow candles until the air itself seemed to shiver with a golden, trembling heat. It smelled, to Thomas Bradshaw, of old wool and damp stone, a scent that clung to the heavy velvet...
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