The Distant Summer
The fire in the great hearth of the Ashworth manor did not crackle so much as it sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to consume the very air from the room, leaving only the scent of wet wood and the heavy, cloying perfume of the lilies that lined the mantelpiece in their clay pots, while I stood at the far end of the hall, my back rigid against the cold stone of the wall, watching my...
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