The Pale Shadows
The chandelier above the ballroom floor threw a fractured light across the mahogany table, illuminating the crystal glasses and the silver platters of roast pheasant that no one was eating. Elias Thorne sat rigid in his chair, the gold braid on his epaulet catching the glare, a sharp line of authority that felt like a wire tied tight around his throat. He was forty years old, and the retirement...
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