The Pale Letter
The rain strikes the leaded glass of the high window, a cold, rhythmic drumming that sounds like the tapping of tiny, desperate fingers. You are in the antechamber of the Duke of Ashworth’s estate, a room so vast and cold that your breath seems to vanish before it can form a cloud. You have been waiting for three hours. Your knees ache, a deep, grinding pain that speaks of the long journey, the...
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