The Ashworth Deed
The fog came in off the moors like a living thing, thick and yellow and smelling of wet stone. Thomas Blackwood pulled his coat tighter and looked up at Ashworth Hall. It had been three hundred years since the original deed was drawn, and in three hundred years the Ashworths had turned it into a machine for swallowing men whole. He was twenty-two and poor in the way that Yorkshire poor men are...
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