The Golden Suspect
The fire started in the thatch of the old barn, a sudden, hungry thing that licked up the oak beams with a sound like tearing silk, and you watched from the porch of the manor house, your boots sinking into the wet, black mud of the courtyard, feeling the heat press against your face like a hot, wet cloth, while the wind howled through the bare branches of the elms, carrying the scent of...
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