The Faded Masquerade
The dust in the main hall of St. Jude’s Orphanage does not settle; it hangs in the stagnant air like a suspended judgment, a fine gray powder that coats the tongue and stings the eyes. You stand in the center of the room, Arthur Vane, forty years old, your hands resting on the cold iron railing of the mezzanine, watching the shadows lengthen as the afternoon light fails. Your heart is a...
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