The Pale Garden
Elias, you boy, stand still. The voice cut through the damp air of the foyer, sharp and commanding, belonging to Mr. Halloway, whose uniform was pressed to a severity that seemed to hold back the rot of the house. Elias did not move. He stood at the threshold of the hallway, his twelve-year-old frame rigid, his eyes fixed on the heavy oak door of the east wing. The smell hit him first, a...
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