The Wistful Throne
The air in the great hall of the Whitmore estate did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect of a house that had stood empty for a decade, but rather of a thick, cloying sweetness, the scent of rotting orchids and old perfume that seemed to cling to the very fibers of the velvet drapes, a perfume that had no name and tasted of iron on the back of the tongue, and in the center of this...
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