The Pale Garden
The feast in the great hall of the Whitmore estate was a cacophony of silver and wine, a riot of velvet and breath that seemed to press against the walls of the old manor with the weight of centuries. Sir Julian Ashworth sat at the head of the table, his face a mask of weary courtesy, while the candlelight danced in the high windows, casting long, trembling shadows that looked like grasping...
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