The Faded Guest
The door to the infirmary was already half open when you arrived, which was wrong, because the gatekeeper, old Mr. Thorne, had sworn that the lock was rusted shut and the key had been lost in the cellar of the west wing three days prior, yet here the heavy oak frame hung wide, breathing out a cold that tasted of iron and dried lavender, and you stood in the corridor with your lantern low,...
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