The Pale Garden
Thorne. The name was a whip crack in the grey air. You stood on the wet gravel, the rain soaking through the wool of your greatcoat, the cold biting into the flesh of your shoulders. Behind you, the village was a smear of smoke and misery; ahead, the manor rose from the mist like a tooth in a rotten gum. You did not turn to look at the man who had called your name. You knew it was Inspector...
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