The Wistful Witness
The coat was red. It had been red before the fire, and it was red after the fire, though the red had changed from a vibrant, arterial crimson to the dull, rusted hue of old blood dried into wool. Margaret Holloway stood in the center of the grand foyer of the Pemberton estate, the silence of the house pressing against her eardrums like deep water. She was not a woman of high station, but a...
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