The Pale Door
The banquet hall of the Blackwood estate was a cavern of smoke and candlelight, a place where the air hung heavy with the scent of roasted goose, beeswax, and the faint, metallic tang of impending ruin. Margaret Holloway stood near the edge of the dais, her hand resting on the cold brass railing, watching the faces of the men who held the keys to her survival. They were laughing, their voices...
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