The Wistful Show
The banquet hall of the Ashworth manor smelled of roasted pheasant and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and the polished mahogany of the tables where the guests sat in rigid, smiling clusters. Margaret Holloway stood at the periphery, her fingers gripping the stem of her wine glass until the knuckles whitened, her gaze fixed not on the Lord of the...
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