The Golden Downtown
The mud on the road to Blackwood Manor had turned to a thick, sucking clay that dragged at the wheels of the carriage until the horses’ breath steamed in the cold October air of 1893. I, Elias Thorne, a constable of twenty years’ service whose joints ached with the damp, clutched the heavy iron lantern in my lap, its blue flame burning with a steady, unnatural intensity that cast no warmth upon...
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