The Golden Downtown
The hall was thick with the scent of roasted swan and beeswax, a cloying perfume that seemed to hang in the air like a heavy, golden veil, suffocating the breath of the guests who sat upon the high-backed chairs and whispered of old debts and newer sins. In the corner, where the light from the tallow candles struggled to pierce the gloom of the stone wall, stood Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose...
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