This audiobook is narrated by a digital voice.

The cathedral bells of St. Bartholomew's tolled their solemn dirge across the mist-shrouded moors of Ravenshollow as Lady Evangeline Blackthorne descended the stone steps, her black silk veil trailing behind her like the shadow of death itself. The year was 1847, and the industrial smoke from the distant mills mingled with the autumn fog, creating an atmosphere so thick with gloom that even the brightest gas lamps could barely pierce the darkness.

Evangeline's gloved hands trembled as she clutched her prayer book, its leather binding worn smooth by countless hours of desperate supplication. Three months had passed since Lord Aldric Blackthorne's funeral, yet she remained swathed in the deepest mourning attire, her face hidden behind layers of black crepe that seemed to absorb what little light managed to filter through the perpetual overcast sky. The villagers whispered that she had not spoken a word since the day her husband was laid to rest in the family crypt, and many crossed themselves when she passed, as if her very presence carried some dark contagion.

The Blackthorne estate loomed before her like a monument to forgotten sorrows, its Gothic towers and gargoyle-adorned battlements reaching toward the heavens as if beseeching some divine intervention that would never come. Ivy crept across the ancient stonework like grasping fingers, and the windows stared down at her with the vacant expression of the long dead. This had been her home for five years of marriage, yet now it felt more like a tomb, each room echoing with memories that cut through her heart like shards of broken glass.

As she approached the massive oak doors, they swung open without her touch, revealing the bent figure of Mrs. Abernathy, the housekeeper who had served the Blackthorne family for nigh on forty years.