The Amber Hourglass
The Amber Hourglass The moor wind did not knock; it possessed. It moved through the cracked windows of Winstanley Hall the way a thief moves through an empty house—quietly, deliberately, taking what it wanted. Agnes Hartwell stood in the portrait gallery on the third floor, her charcoal stick hovering over the canvas. She had been painting for six hours. The portrait was of the old housekeeper,...
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