The Iron Crucible of Blackmoor Hall
The rain fell on Manchester like a judgment. Edward Blackwood stood at the window of his childhood bedroom, ten years old and trembling, as men in dark coats dragged his father from the front door. He watched through the cracked glass as Sir Reginald Croft's servants piled the family's ledgers into a carriage. The last thing his father said before being shoved into the vehicle was not a plea...
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