The Faded Quadrant
The banquet hall of the Sterling-Whitmore estate did not smell of food, but of old varnish and the faint, sweet decay of lilies that had been left too long in crystal vases. It was a room suspended in a timeless amber, where the light from the chandelier seemed less like illumination and more like a physical weight pressing down on the shoulders of the guests. Margaret stood near the edge of...
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