The Golden Visit
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a relentless, hollow rhythm against the slate roof of my cottage on the edge of Blackwater, a village that clung to the river like a leech to a wound. I sat by the cold hearth, watching the embers die, my hands stained yellow from the sulfur and chalk I had ground that morning. I was a keeper of small mysteries, a woman who listened to the...
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