The Wistful Incense
The harvest feast at the Ashford estate was a riot of noise and excess, a chaotic symphony of clinking crystal and raucous laughter that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into the bones of those who sat within the gilded cage of the main hall. Margaret Holloway stood near the perimeter of the room, her spine rigid, watching the swirl of silk and tulle as it moved with the mechanical...
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