The Pale Garden
The banquet hall at the Blackwood Estate did not smell of food, but of damp wool and old money, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and settled in the hollows of the throat like sediment in a stagnant pool. We sat beneath a chandelier of crystal that caught the candlelight and shattered it into a thousand trembling shards, each one reflecting a face that was not quite the one looking back,...
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