An unusual hint of snow finally began settling upon London as early March creeped in, and the indian summer was over. Spring was a long ways away, and this fact hung deep in the pit of my stomach as I strained to get the door of my manor open, stepped inside, and closed it again. Though the house was poorly insulated, it was surprisingly still. As I removed my scarf and boots, I heard the gentle bubbling of liquid from the kitchen, the only lit room in view. The long yellow gleam cast a large shadowy rectangle across the entire dark floor in a straight path to the front door. I walked to it...
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