The Golden Harbor
The banquet hall of Blackwood Manor does not smell of roasting pheasant or aged port, as the histories claim it should, but of wet wool, rotting wood, and the metallic tang of old blood that seeps up from the flagstones when the autumn rains begin to drum against the high, arched windows; you are sitting at the head of the long oak table, your hands folded in your lap, watching the candlelight...
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