The Faded Root
The brass key hangs heavy in Constance Harkness’s palm, its teeth worn smooth by four decades of turning. It smells of cold iron and the stale, damp wool of the hallway she just left. She stands before the heavy oak door of the estate, The Faded Root, her knuckles white against the wood. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of rotting paper and wet stone, a smell that clings to the back of...
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