The Distant Garden
The chandelier in the ballroom of the Whitmore Estate did not so much hang as it loomed, a constellation of cut crystal and tarnished gold that seemed to breathe with the humid exhalations of three hundred guests. It was the autumn of 1904, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, beeswax, and the faint, metallic tang of ambition that always clung to the upper classes during...
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