The Distant Summer
The rotunda of Blackwood Hall was not merely a room but a hollow in the earth, a vast, circular throat where the wind from the north moaned through the high, arched windows with a voice that Elias Thorne had learned to recognize as his own name. He stood at the center of the marble floor, the deed to the estate clutched in his sweating palm, the paper damp and soft in his grip, while the dust...
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