The Iron Mirror of Blackwood Hall
I came to Blackwood Hall expecting grief, and found something worse: a family that had made grief into a tradition. The estate sat in the Yorkshire moors like a wound in the landscape, all crumbling stone and iron gates rusted shut by decades of neglect. My uncle, Lord Edward Blackwood, met me at the door with arms that trembled and eyes that burned with a fever I could not name. He was my...
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