The Golden Quest
The rain in Oakhaven did not wash things clean. It only made the dirt slicker, darker, more clinging. "Is it dead, Tom?" The boy’s voice was thin, scraped raw by the cold that seeped through the thin walls of the cellar. Thomas Bradshaw did not look up. His hands, caked with mud and something else, something reddish-brown, worked steadily over the shape on the stone floor. "It is not dead,"...
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