Casey Gibson

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Charles had only gotten in because the magic was broken; if I could reseal the protection around Constance and shut Charles out he would have to leave the house. Every touch he made on the house must be erased. “Charles is a ghost,” I said, and Constance sighed. I polished the doorknob to our father’s room with my dust cloth, and at least one of Charles’ touches was
We Have Always Lived in the Castle
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