The Pale Altar
The air in the grand hall of the Whitmore Estate did not smell of dust, as one might expect in a house that had been half-abandoned for a decade, but rather of ozone and old, sweetened wine, a cloying perfume that clung to the back of the throat and settled into the pores like a second skin, heavy and warm, while the chandeliers above, though long since stripped of their bulbs, still held the...
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