The Faded Masquerade
The iron lungs of the great hall in the manor of Lord Ashworth, a sprawling Victorian carcass of blackened oak and tarnished silver that sat heavy and rotting on the cliff edge above the churning grey waters of the North Sea, did not breathe, nor did they exhale, but they held their breath in a suffocating, stagnant silence that pressed against the eardrums of every guest who had descended from...
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