The Faded Guest
The wine was red, thick as arterial blood, and it sloshed against the rim of the crystal decanter as you poured. Your hand did not shake. You had trained it not to shake for twenty years, ever since the first winter you worked in Blackwood Manor. But beneath the wool of your waistcoat, the silver locket burned against your ribs. It was a small, oval thing, tarnished by time and sweat, but...
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