The Pale Garden
The chandeliers in the Blackwood mansion did not merely illuminate the room; they assaulted it, casting a jagged, golden light that turned the silk of the guests’ dresses into weapons. Elias Thorne stood near the edge of the dining table, his hand resting on the cold marble, feeling the vibration of the orchestra through his fingertips. He was thirty-two, a man whose face had been worn smooth...
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