The Distant Affair
The rain did not fall so much as it settled, a heavy, grey drizzle that turned the cobblestones of the courtyard into a slick mirror of the night sky. In the center of the square, beneath the canopy of a withered oak, stood the object. It was a clock, or what had once been a clock. Now it was a hollow thing, a cage of brass and iron, its face missing, its hands severed. Margaret Holloway stood...
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