The Wistful Cipher
The rain had been falling on the slate roof of the Whitmore estate for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the garden into a swamp of mud and broken leaves, and I stood in the center of the library, my hand resting on the cold brass doorknob of the study where my husband, Thomas, had spent the last decade of his life, trying to solve a puzzle...
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