The Wistful Show
You’ve got the invoice? I asked, holding the wet paper up to the dim light of the hallway. The signature on the contract was mine, or at least it looked like it, written in a hand that seemed to tremble even though my fingers were steady. The rain outside was heavy, a steady drumming against the slate roof that made the air inside the Blackwood estate feel thick and pressurized. I was there for...
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