The Golden Harbor
The feast in the cellar of the Ashworth estate was a thing of smoke and candlelight, a warm, suffocating embrace against the chill of the industrial age. Outside, the ironworks of Blackwood Valley churned, spitting sparks like angry stars into the night, but down here, beneath the flagstones, the air was thick with the scent of roasted goose and stale tobacco. Sir Arthur Ashworth sat at the...
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