The Distant Promise
The cellar of the Ashworth manor did not smell of damp earth or rotting wood, as one might expect from a place dug so deep into the bones of the Yorkshire moors, but rather of a cloying, sweet rot, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a forbidden fruit pressed too long against the tongue, a perfume of overripe plums and bruised lavender that seemed to rise from the very stones in a...
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