The Pale Dance
The champagne in your glass is cold, a sharp, acidic bite that wakes you from the daze of the crowd. You stand at the edge of Lord Blackwood’s ballroom, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and old money, watching the chandeliers sway like suspended stars. You are thirty years old, Elias Vane, and you have come here for one reason: the commission to restore St. Jude’s Chapel. It is...
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