The Distant Affair
The emerald brooch was warm. Not the passive warmth of a stone left in the sun, but a living, pulsing heat that seeped into Clara Vane’s fingertips as she held it. It was a small, jagged thing, set in tarnished silver, and it hummed against her palm like a trapped insect. She set it on the workbench of the Oakhaven Mill, the wood grain rough under her sleeve. The room smelled of lint and...
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