The road to Blackmoor Cross was not so much a road as a memory of one—pale ribbons of crushed limestone worn smooth by centuries of hooves and wheels, disappearing into a fog that clung to the lowlands like a secret unwilling to be told.
Thomas Ellery rode into that fog at dawn on a Tuesday in October, though the fog did not care for Tuesdays, nor for the fact that he was carrying a letter...
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek