The Wistful Cipher
The rain had not ceased for three days, a persistent, grey weeping that turned the cobblestones of the old town into slick mirrors of the sky. You arrived at the estate of Lord Alistair Thorne on the fourth morning, your boots squelching in the mud that clung to the wheels of your carriage like a dark, heavy skin. You were not there to solve a crime, though the magistrate had framed it so, but...
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