The Pale Tower
The air in the dining room of the Whitmore estate was thick, not with the usual chill of the November afternoon pressing against the leaded glass, but with a cloying, suffocating sweetness, the scent of overripe peaches and beeswax candles that seemed to hum in the silence between words, a silence that was no longer empty but filled to the brim with the unspoken, the deferred, the dangerous...
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