The Distant Blade
The rain fell in sheets of grey. It struck the cobblestones with a sound like bone breaking. Margaret Holloway stood on the threshold. She wore a coat of black wool. The fabric was wet. It clung to her skin. She held a dagger in her right hand. The blade was short. It was iron. It was dull. The edge had worn away over years of use. She looked back at the house. The windows were dark. The air...
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