The Golden Suspect

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2026-08-20 17:55:00 -

The feast was a monument to excess. The great hall of Ashworth Manor smelled of roasted pheasant and beeswax. The air was thick. It hummed with the low vibration of the chandeliers. They were old brass. They caught the firelight and threw it back in sharp, jagged shards. I stood by the mantel. My hands were stained. The dye had eaten into the whorls of my skin. It would not wash out. It was...

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