The Wistful Witness

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 23:39:01 -

The banquet hall of the Ashworth estate did not smell of roasted pheasant or spiced wine, as the invitation had promised, but of damp plaster and the metallic tang of old blood. Margaret Holloway stood by the window, her fingers trembling against the cold glass, watching the fog roll in from the moor, a grey shroud swallowing the grounds. She had come here to beg for her life, or rather, for...

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