Chapter Four
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The lobby of the Precipice Hotel looked as if it had been carved from a single piece of wood.  But in a classy, red oak sort of way, she reflected.  The no nonsense approach to a rich man's hunting lodge.  Counteracting the initial impression of rustic imperialism was the fiber-optic chandelier made from a salvaged wagon wheel.  Steampunk, it was called.  Margaret had no idea how she knew that little factoid.  Must have picked it up somewhere in her tireless internet questing.  Rare African orchids in a crystal decanter sat atop a slab of petrified wood.  Veins of green and the deepest crimson streaked the tables mirrored surface.  And there were leather coasters on the table.  Leather, mind you.  Protecting the finish from a few perspiring glasses of what undoubtedly was absu...

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