The Wistful Crossroads
The banquet hall of the Old Meridian Hotel, a crumbling Art Deco relic perched on the edge of the fading downtown district, was thick with the scent of roasted lamb, stale perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that seemed to permeate the very walls, a sensation that Margot Vane had long ago learned to ignore but never truly forget, her eyes fixed not on the glittering chandeliers or...
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