The Wistful Ashes
The candlelight in the Great Hall of the Ministry of Silence caught the gold leaf on Elara Vane’s dress, a garment that had cost her six months’ salary in hems and alterations, and she held her champagne flute with a steadiness that belied the trembling of her hands. It was the year 1893, and the banquet was a spectacle of velvet and white linen, the air thick with the scent of roasted pheasant...
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