The transition from the emotional sanctuary of the North Wing to the private master terrace of the East Wing was like stepping from a sacred cathedral into an enchanted midnight garden. The air out on the stone terrace was intoxicating—crisp alpine breeze carrying the rich, sweet perfume of night-blooming jasmine, crushed pine needles, and the wild purple wisteria that cascaded over the ancient granite balustrades. Fifty feet below, the waters…
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