The Wistful Cipher
The ledger showed twelve bottles of claret, forty pounds of mutton, and a debt of three hundred shillings to the butcher. I wrote the figures in the margin of my service diary, the ink still wet, while the fire crackled in the hearth of the ancestral estate. The air smelled of tallow and old wool, a scent that had soaked into the stones of Harrowgate Manor long before I arrived to audit its...
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