The Pale Garden
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a cold, persistent mist that clung to the stone walls of Harrowgate like a shroud woven from the breath of the dead. I stood at the threshold of the manor house, my boots heavy with the mud of the lower village, watching the last of the servants retreat into the darkened corridors. They looked at me with eyes wide and hollow, the eyes of those who...
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