The Wistful Skyline
The house had been waiting for him, or perhaps he had been waiting for the house, for so long that the distinction between the two had worn away like the varnish on the banister, leaving behind a raw, pale wood that ached when the winter wind pressed against the glass. Arthur Penhaligon stood in the center of the drawing room, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, fingers curled slightly as...
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