The Stone and the Tower
The wind on the moors did not blow so much as it hunted, scouring the heather with invisible fingers, driving it flat against the earth until nothing remained but a grey-brown carpet of broken stems and stubborn roots. Thomas Ashworth felt it in his teeth, in the cracks of his boots, in the ragged tear of his shirt where the wool had worn thin from years of sleeping in sheds and eating cold...
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