The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-19 12:04:12 -

The rain did not fall so much as it suspended itself, a grey, wet veil that erased the horizon line between the sky and the sprawling, decaying estate of Blackwood. Inside the greenhouse, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. Arthur Penhaligon stood before the central row of orchids, his hands stained with the deep, indigo bruise of crushed...

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