The Distant Ghost
"The water has turned the color of old bruises," Margaret said, her voice flat as a stone dropped into a deep well. She did not look up from the loom. The shuttle clicked against the wooden frame, a rhythmic, hollow sound that seemed to count the seconds of her confinement. Lord Ashworth stood by the heavy oak door, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the flagstones. He was a man...
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