The Distant Summer
The coach jolted to a halt on the gravel drive, shaking the dust from Arthur Vane’s shins as he stepped into the wet October air of 1893. He was thirty-four, his face a map of recent hunger, his pockets holding nothing but a letter of introduction and the crushing weight of a debt that had swallowed his father’s estate whole. The house of Vane’s Hollow loomed before him, a skeletal thing of...
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