The silence at Blackwater Head began with blood.
Edward Ashworth pressed his ear against the cold stone of the lighthouse watchtower, feeling the warm trickle slip between his fingers. His hand came away crimson — the same crimson he had been waking to for eleven months now, every morning, every night, a steady seepage from the ports just behind both ear-drums where the Admiralty's surgeons had drilled into his skull in the winter of 1886....
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