The Wistful Skyline
The banquet hall of the Ashworth Estate smelled of roasted goose and wet wool, a thick, cloying fog that settled in the lungs and refused to leave. It was the winter of 1893, and the air outside was sharp enough to cut glass, but inside, the heat from the coal fires made the air feel heavy, stagnant. Arthur Penhaligon sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers drumming a restless...
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