The Golden Visit
The rain in the industrial district of Ashworth did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the soot-stained cobblestones into a mirror of the low, hanging sky. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the foyer of the Pemberton estate, his boots leaving dark, wet prints on the parquet floor that had not seen sunlight in weeks. He was not there as a guest, nor yet as a jailer, but as a...
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