The Wistful Saga
The house breathed. That was the only way Arthur Vane could describe it. Not creaked. Not settled. Breathed. In the damp chill of the Scottish Highlands, the old timber exhaled a scent of wet wool and ancient dust. Arthur stood in the center of the hall, his boots heavy on the flagstones. He was a man of measurements. A carpenter by trade, though his hands were more for joints and mortises than...
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