The Wistful Crossroads
The rain has been falling on the slate roof of the old manor house for three days, a relentless, drumming percussion that vibrates through the floorboards and settles into your marrow like cold mercury, and you are sitting in the corner of the library with a cup of tea that went cold an hour ago, watching the dust motes dance in the single beam of light that manages to pierce the gloom, while...
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