The Golden Scar
The ink was still wet when Margaret Holloway realized that her hands had turned black, the dark pigment seeping into the whorls of her fingerprints and settling into the cracks of her knuckles like the dust of a grave that had not yet been filled. She stood in the center of the long hall of the Ashworth estate, a place that had no specific year or season but existed in a perpetual, gray...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare