The Golden Visit
The iron stove in the cellar breathes. That is the first thing you must understand about the house at Blackwood Manor, for it does not sit inert as stone and timber, but inhales the damp air with a slow, rhythmic pull that sucks the warmth from your lungs and leaves your fingers trembling against the cold metal. You are twelve years old, Elias, and your hands are stained black with soot, the...
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