The Will of Blackwood Manor
I. The fog rolled in from the moors on a Tuesday, thick as wool and just as suffocating. By Wednesday morning, Henry Blackwood was dead. They said it was the heart. Dr. Pemberton pronounced it at half past four in the afternoon, his stethoscope cold against Henry's chest, his face arranged in the professional mask of a man who has seen too many dead bodies to be surprised by any of them. I...
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