The Golden Visit
The iron cufflink, cold and heavy as a river stone, lay on the damp flagstones of the cellar floor, its intricate engraving of a lion’s mane fractured into three jagged pieces, a mirror of the silence that had settled over the Ashworth estate like a suffocating shroud, a silence that smelled of wet wool, old blood, and the bitter, metallic tang of fear that I could not wash from my skin no...
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