The Pale Garden
October 14th The feast at Blackwood Manor was a spectacle of rot dressed in silk. We sat beneath the high, vaulted ceiling of the conservatory, where the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and overripe pears, the windows fogged from the inside out by the breath of forty guests who did not look at one another. I sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, my hands wrapped around a...
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