The Distant Clue
The fire in the great hall of Blackwood Manor had burned down to a bed of white ash, yet the room remained thick with the scent of roasting lamb and spilled wine, a sticky, sweet rot that seemed to cling to the fabric of the curtains and the skin of the guests. It was the feast of the Midwinter, a tradition so old that the villagers who brought their gifts of ale and venison to the gates could...
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