The Faded Frequency
The banquet hall of the Ashworth estate smelled of roasted pheasant and wet wool, a thick, cloying perfume that seemed to coat the back of my throat with a film of grease and fear. We were seated at a long mahogany table, the varnish gleaming under the chandeliers like dark, polished stone, and the clinking of silverware against china was a sharp, rhythmic sound that cut through the low murmur...
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