The Wistful Letter
The banquet hall of the Blackwood estate did not smell of roasts or wine, as a feast in the high antiquity of the town should have, but of wet stone and the metallic tang of old blood that had seeped into the flagstones centuries ago and refused to wash out. It was a night of perpetual twilight, the windows boarded up against the creeping fog that rolled off the moors, and the air inside was...
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