dim reflections

Wulfharth Manor was as dismal and gray as the rain pelting the carriage roof. Three children sat squeezed inside the coach---two girls sitting opposite a small boy and his governess---occasionally peeking out the tiny window from beneath bonnets and cap, respectively. Serpentine streams obscured any clear view of the estate. Still, its condition was easily ascertained by the most cursory glance. English Ivy clawed along the massive face in a desperate attempt to secure the withered stone, and oak boards closed the hollowed window-eyes.  "I wish Mamma were here," the boy murmured, clutching something like an amulet at his chest. "There, there, dearie," the spindly woman at his side rustled in a strong, Yorkshire tone. She promptly placed a bony hand at his cherubic face and drew it to her arm, stretched across his chest, "You have your sisters, and they shall be mother enough now." "That is right, Orville," the older sister chimed in, leaning forw...