The Golden Cellar
Vane. The word hung in the cold air of the study, sharp and unyielding. It was not a question, nor a request, but a summons that had traveled three hundred miles by post to reach the small, damp town of Harrowgate. Arthur Vane looked up from his desk, where a rejection letter from the university press lay open, its ink still wet with the finality of its verdict. He was thirty-four, a historian...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews