The Pale Verdict
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a whisper, a dry rasping of wind against the ancient oaks that had guarded the estate for three centuries before the first stone of Whitmore Hall was laid. I remember the smell of it, not the acrid bite of burning timber, but the sweet, cloying scent of heated resin and old paper, a perfume that seemed to hang in the air long after the flames had...
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