The Distant Joke
The rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a gray curtain drawn tight against the windows of the manor, blurring the world into a watercolor of mud and dying hedges. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a perfume that had preserved the dust of decades in the rafters. Silas Thorne stood by the fireplace, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial sword that had...
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