The salt wind off the Solent carried the smell of distant summers—salt, tallow, the ghost of jasmine tea cooling in a cup left too long on a wrought-iron table. Arthur Pendelton-Croft stood at the railing of his small boat, the one he'd had rebuilt from a fishing skiff his grandfather had lost somewhere between the Isle of Wight and Cherbourg in the autumn of 1968, and watched the light...
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