The Pale Dance
The rain lashed against the leaded windows of the Whitmore Estate, a relentless, industrial drumming that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the house, while Elias Thorne sat in his office, the air thick with the dust of decaying paper and the scent of damp wool, staring at the sealed envelope that had been the final testament of his mentor, Arthur Pendelton, a man whose memory Elias...
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