The rain had been falling on York shire for three days when Arthur Blackwood inherited the ruins of Hargrave Hall.
The estate sat on a hill that overlooked a valley swallowed by fog. The stone walls were cracked, the windows were boarded, and the great oak doors groaned like something alive when you pushed them open. Arthur stood in the entrance hall and listened to water dripping somewhere above him. His father had died three weeks earlier, alone in the London room at the top of the stairs, and the...
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