The Distant Wound
The rain had been falling for eleven days when Eleanor Voss found the letter in the wall. It was wrapped in oilcloth, sealed with wax the colour of dried blood, and tucked behind a loose brick near the hearth of the abandoned cottage on the moors. She had come to Whitburn Priory to catalogue her grandmother's papers—three decades of tax returns, dried botanical specimens in tea tins, a ledger...
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