The Pale Garden
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the cobblestones of the old manor house into slick, black mirrors, and it was in this oppressive dampness that Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose uniform was stained with the mud of the countryside and the sweat of his own failing nerves, stood before the massive oak doors of the east wing, holding the brass key that his...
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