The Golden Crossing

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2026-08-18 18:05:46 -

The banquet hall of the Ashworth Manor smelled of roasted pheasant and ozone. It was a scent that did not belong to the year 1894, nor to the damp Yorkshire hills outside the stained-glass windows, but it hung heavy in the air, settling on the velvet upholstery and the silver candelabra. Eleanor Ashworth stood at the head of the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her fingers were pale,...

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