The Count of the Moor
The wind came off the moor like a blade, sharpened by years of unbroken weather. Eleanor Ashworth stood at the window of the drawing room and watched it tear across the heather, silver and grey and endless. The house groaned around her, timber settling into timber, the old stones remembering centuries of cold. She had inherited it six months ago, and already it felt less like a home and more...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews