The Last Keeper of Blackwood
The rain struck the library windows of Blackwood Hall like handfuls of gravel. James Blackwood stood with his palm on the spine of a fourteenth-century manuscript, his fingers trembling slightly. He was twenty-seven years old, a former Royal Navy officer who had spent three years in the Crimea and emerged with a heart that still sometimes skipped beats at the sound of distant thunder. He had...
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