The Wistful Mirror
Vane. Get out of the attic. The voice was Margaret’s, muffled by the floorboards, but the summons cut through the dust. Arthur Vane did not move. He sat on the warped planks, the light from the single window slicing through the gloom in a beam that caught the motes dancing above his father’s journal. The book lay open in his lap. It was a heavy thing, bound in leather that had gone grey with...
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