The Golden Circuit
October 14, 1892 The east wing is gone, or rather, it is in the process of ceasing to be, the timbers groaning under a heat that defies the damp chill of the autumn night, a visceral, screaming orange light that bleeds through the cracks in the plaster and turns the shadows of the drawing room into jagged, dancing silhouettes that seem to reach for my throat. I have spent the last three hours...
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