The Golden Farce
The fog sits heavy on the moors. It tastes of iron and wet wool. You are in the house. The house is old. The house is sick. You feel it in your bones. The damp crawls under the floorboards. It climbs the walls. It whispers in the eaves. You ignore it. You have ignored it for years. You are Eleanor. You are the mistress of this decaying estate. You are alone. Or so you think. The fire dies in...
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