The Golden Harbor
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Estate, a sprawling Victorian monstrosity of rotting oak and stained glass that had once depicted saints now looking uncomfortably like weeping men, was filled with the smell of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of fear, a scent that clung to the back of your throat like a bad penny, a lingering residue of a transaction that had not been settled but merely...
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