The Pale Garden
The boundary is a line of white stone, worn smooth by centuries of rain and the slow, grinding pressure of roots that wish to cross it. You stand on your side, the side of the estate, the side of law and ledger and silence. Across the path, in the fog that clings to the valley floor like a wet woolen shroud, the garden of the Harrow family stretches out, pale and skeletal. It is not a place of...
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