The Pale Circus
The rain hammered the slate roof of the Blackwood manor, a relentless, rhythmic pounding that shook the dust from the high beams. Elias Vane sat in his study, the only light coming from a single gas lamp that buzzed like a trapped insect. His hand rested on his knee. It was a heavy thing, that hand. Broad, knuckled, stained with ink and old varnish. It had built the library. It had cataloged...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews