The Wistful Ashes
The great hall of the manor house, which had once echoed with the robust laughter of feudal lords and the clatter of silver upon porcelain, now hummed with a low, electric vibration that tasted of ozone and burnt sugar, the air thick with the scent of lilies that had been preserved in chemical stasis for three centuries and now began to rot from the inside out as the central power grid...
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