The Golden Visit
The house breathed. It was not a metaphor, nor a trick of the old plumbing sighing in the night, but a physical rhythm, a slow, tidal inhalation that pulled the dust motes in the air toward the center of the room and exhaled them back out through the keyholes. Arthur Vane stood in the center of the Great Hall, his hands trembling not from cold, though the frost had crept up the windowpanes in...
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