The Faded Alibi
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the manor house with a persistent, rhythmic violence that seemed to seep into the stone itself, into the marrow of the walls. Thomas Whitmore stood by the fire, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The steel was cold, but his palm was dry. He did not sweat. He never did. His body was a mechanism of duty,...
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