Beatrice Winthrop-Cross had spent forty-five years learning how to listen to silence—the way a piano tuner listens to the space between one note and the next, where the vibration still hangs in the air like smoke. When she inherited her great-aunt Marguerite's Cotswolds stone manor, she expected dust and faded wallpaper and the slow surrender of a house that had outlived its inhabitants. She...
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