The Wistful Mirror
The winter of 1893 had settled over the moors of the Yorkshire Dales with a weight that felt less like weather and more like judgment, pressing down on the blackened stones of Vane House until the very air seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of Arthur’s departure. Arthur Vane, a man of forty whose face had been carved by the harsh winds and the heavier winds of public disgrace, stood at...
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