The Golden Suspect
The great hall of the Ashworth estate did not smell of dust, as one might expect of a house abandoned by time, but of wet iron and the cloying, sweet decay of overripe pears that had fallen from the high branches of the orchard beyond the glass, rotting in the rafters where the sun could not reach them. Elias, who was seven years old and possessed of a mind that moved with the frantic,...
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