The Wistful Witness
The banquet hall of the Whitmore estate did not smell of food, but of damp wool and the metallic tang of old blood that had seeped into the oak floorboards decades ago, a scent that seemed to rise from the grain itself to coat the throats of the thirty-seven guests who sat in rigid silence under the chandeliers, their faces illuminated by the flickering gaslight that buzzed like a trapped...
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