The Wistful Skyline
The air in the grand ballroom of the Sterling Institute did not smell of perfume or old money, as one might expect from such a hallowed, gilded institution, but rather of a sharp, medicinal astringency, a scent like crushed peppermint leaves and stale iodine that clung to the velvet upholstery and seeped into the pores of every guest who lingered near the heavy, brocade drapes. It was the smell...
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