The walls of Black Sun Manor were warm.
Lady Eleanor Ashworth pressed her palm against the papered surface in the east corridor and withdrew it with a faint sigh. The wallpaper — damask, burgundy, gilt-edged — had begun to blister at the corners. Beneath it, something radiated heat. Not the warmth of a hearth. The warmth of something alive. She had received Lord Charles's letter three days ago, penned in a hand that shook so...
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