The Wistful Dinner
The air in the Great Hall of the Ashworth estate did not merely smell of roasted pheasant and spiced wine; it carried the heavy, metallic tang of old iron and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay that seemed to seep from the very stone walls. Margaret Holloway sat at the foot of the long mahogany table, her hands folded neatly in her lap, fingers interlaced with a precision that bordered on...
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