The Distant Clue
The feast had not yet begun, but the air in the grand hall of the Whitmore estate was already thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of old anxiety, a perfume that clung to the velvet drapes and settled into the pores of the stone floor, binding us all in a suffocating embrace of expectation. I sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, my hands folded neatly in my...
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