The Distant Promise
Act I Edna Tillman, thirty-two, held the iron key for the Blackwood gate, her knuckles white against the rusted metal. It was the forty-seven of the Tide Clock that kept the estate’s time, though no one looked at it anymore, only the mud. I wanted to leave, to walk the path beyond the bars and let the cold take the rot out of my bones. But the order stood: the gate stays shut until the...
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