The Pale Garden
"Is the deed signed?" Halloway’s voice was a dry rasp, stripped of courtesy. Elias Thorne stood in the hallway of the manor, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and old paper. He did not answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the silver locket clutched in his mother’s trembling hand. She sat in a high-backed chair, her face a map of recent exhaustion, the veins in her neck standing...
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