The Distant Blade
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the wool of coats and the hair of dogs, turning the town into a watercolor left out in the drizzle until the lines bled into one another. Margaret Holloway moved through this damp air with the deliberate, heavy grace of a woman who had learned that stillness was a form of resistance. She was the...
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