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... he polished floors, broken only by the pale flicker of wall sconces. Beatrice moved without sound, her steps quiet on the marble, the hem of her gown whispering as she passed each paintings.
It was always colder here.
Not physically, though the stone never quite held warmth. No, this cold came from the walls themselves. The hush of a space meant for legacy, not comfort. Generations of monarchs stared down from their frames, oil eyes indifferent.
She paused near the far wi ...
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