The Golden Mirror
The rain has been falling for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turns the moor around Blackwood Hall into a churning sea of mud and heather. I am writing this by the light of a single tallow candle, the wax pooling in the holder as the wind whistles through the cracks in the stone walls, and I find myself unable to look at the mirror in the hallway without a sickening lurch in my gut....
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