The Golden Suspect
The banquet hall was a mouth of light. It stretched out before Margaret Holloway, infinite and gold, the air thick with the scent of burnt sugar and old stone. She stood at the edge of the crowd, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, fingers digging into her own palms. The noise was a physical weight, a roaring tide of laughter and clinking glass that pressed against her eardrums until...
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