The Candle on the Moor
The rain fell upon the Yorkshire moors like the tears of a forgotten god, and upon those same stones, the girl fell like a dropped marionette. Evelyn Cross struck the broken flagstones of Thorn Hall with a sound that was almost polite, a soft thud swallowed instantly by the tempest. Her body curled inward, a flower closing against the storm, and then lay still. The fog, thick as wool and just...
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