The Static of Blackwood Manor
Isabella found Emily's room exactly as she had left it. The bed was made, the sheets pulled taut and smooth. The lace curtains hung still in the November air. On the washstand, Emily's silver comb lay beside her hairbrush, each tooth catching the dim light from the corridor. A half-folded shirtwaist rested on the chair where Emily had been dressing for evening prayers. Everything was in its...
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