The Wistful Witness
The departure from the Vane estate was not marked by tears, but by the sharp, metallic scent of the autumn air and the weight of the silver hairpin resting in Arthur’s breast pocket. It was a piece of his mother’s vanity, a slender, twisted rod of sterling silver that had caught the light in her dressing room for forty years, and now it sat against his ribs like a cold, living thing, a mirror...
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