The rain had not stopped in three days, and the stone of the High Hall wept with a cold that no amount of tallow could drive from the bones. It was a sound like the grinding of millstones, a low, continuous moan that seemed to rise from the very bedrock of the castle, echoing off the vaulted ceilings where the tapestries, once vibrant with the heraldry of the Ashworths, now hung in limp,...
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