The Faded Bouquet
The air in the Great Hall of Ashworth Manor hung thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of fear, a cloying atmosphere that pressed against Margaret Holloway’s temples as she stood at the head of the long oak table, her hands trembling around the small, stoppered vial of amber syrup. For seven years, she had brewed this Elixir of Clarity in the cold, damp cellar, a labor...
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