The Faded Masquerade
The rain in the city did not fall so much as it accumulated, a heavy, grey suspension that turned the cobblestones of the lower district into a mirror for the gaslight and the smoke. Margaret Holloway stood before the shattered remnants of the great window in the attic room of her late father’s estate, her hands trembling not from the cold, which was a physical thing, sharp and biting, but from...
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