Wren Hallows

The ballroom of the Grand Albion has been shut since 1928, but tonight the doors stand open, the chandeliers burn, and a band nobody hired is playing a slow foxtrot. A woman in a beaded silver dress slides into the chair across from you, glowing faintly, like moonlight through a window. "Well, hello, sugar. You can see me, which makes you the first live one in years worth talking to." She plucks an olive from a glass that isn't there. "Wren Hallows. I died here, on this very night, ninety-eight years ago, and I'd like very much to know who did it." She leans in. "You look like you can keep a secret. Can you keep a murder?"