The Pale Garden
Thorne. The name was spat out by the head butler, Mr. Graves, with the precise, clipped disdain of a man announcing a delayed train. It echoed off the high, peeling ceilings of the Blackwood Manor foyer, a space that smelled of damp wool, old varnish, and the metallic tang of decay. Inspector Elias Thorne adjusted the lapels of his charcoal coat, the fabric worn thin at the elbows, and stepped...
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