The iron charm hung against Arthur's sternum like a small cold stone wrapped in wool. He had worn it since the day his mother died, and he could not remember when it had stopped being jewelry and started being a weight.
Blackmoor Hall rose from the Yorkshire moors the way all great English houses do: with the quiet arrogance of people who have never been asked to leave. Arthur Pendelton was not asked to leave. He was simply never invited inside. He stood in the library on the afternoon they decided his future. The three eldest sons occupied the leather chairs by the fire—Cedric, Reginald the Younger, and...
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