The Golden Oath
The champagne in the crystal flute tastes of copper and ash, a thin, metallic film that coats your tongue as you stand at the edge of the banquet table in the Halloway Mill’s grand hall. It is 1912, and the air is thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the low, subsonic hum that has been vibrating in the floorboards for three months, a frequency that makes your molars ache and your vision...
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