The Pale Mist
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the estate into a slick, reflecting mirror of the world above. You stood in the center of the drawing room, your back pressed against the cold mahogany of the secretary’s desk, the wood grain biting into your spine like a warning. The air smelled of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang...
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