Bewitched
For them, beauty was not a thing to be flaunted but endured—the glimmer of frost upon stone, the sound of snow cracking beneath boots, the stillness of a frozen lake.
But here, in Cromwell, everything gleamed. Candles spilled their light across honey-gold walls, ribbons shimmered from the rafters, and servants scurried like well-trained doves with their trays of wine. It was unbearable in its brightness. To August’s eyes, it seemed almost mocking.
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