The Wistful Incense
The banquet hall of the Ashworth estate hummed with the low, electric frequency of a thousand unspoken judgments. You stood at the periphery, your uniform pressed to a severity that bordered on the ascetic, the brass buttons catching the light of the candelabras like small, cold stars. The air was thick, suffocatingly so, laden with the scent of roasted pheasant, heavy red wine, and the cloying...
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