The Pale Garden
"Burn them, Elias. Burn the ledgers before the frost sets in." The voice that came from the bed was not Mara’s. It was low, gravelly, and carried the specific, clipped diction of the old aristocracy, the kind of speech that had not been heard in the corridors of Blackwood Court in forty years. You stood by the bedside, your hand hovering over the iron rail, watching the rise and fall of your...
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