The Distant Nightmare
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended mist that clung to the cobblestones of the old quarter, turning the gaslight into a bruised, yellow smear. Margot stood on the threshold of the carriage house, her coat damp and heavy, the smell of wet wool and coal smoke binding her to the earth. Behind her, the silence of the manor house was not empty but thick, a pressure that sat upon...
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