The Distant Garden
The ledger was open, the ink still wet, and the house was breathing. Elias Vane sat at the mahogany desk in the library of Vane Manor, the air thick with the scent of damp rot and old paper. He was forty years old, a clerk in the city whose spine had curved under the weight of ledgers and debts, and he had come to this crumbling estate in the Yorkshire moors to settle the final accounts for his...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews