The Faded Photograph
In the velvet-dark of the dream, you are not yet Margaret, the daughter of the late Lord Ashworth, but merely a breath suspended in the cold air of the palace that now houses the Ministry of Internal Harmony, and you wake with the taste of iron and old roses on your tongue, the same taste that has haunted your sleep since the day the new Chancellor, a man whose eyes were devoid of the flicker...
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