The Golden Cellar
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey drumming against the leaded windows of the manor that turned the world outside into a blur of mud and dripping willows. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang of anxiety that seemed to permeate the very plaster of the walls. Arthur Pendelton stood by the hearth, though the fire...
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