The Wistful Witness
The orchard behind the manor house had been dying for three years, a slow and silent hemorrhage of vitality that no one in the village seemed willing to name, yet which every child in the household of the Ashworths could feel in the hollow of their stomachs like a cold stone dropped into deep water. It was a peculiar kind of rot, not the sudden blight of frost or the hungry striping of...
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