The island of St. Clare's rose from the Mediterranean like a memory that refused to dissolve.
Henry Worthington stepped off the ferry at dawn, his duffel bag heavy with the things a man packs when he has stopped planning to return. He was thirty years old, British by birth, wounded by war in a way that did not show on his uniform but was written into the way he held his left hand—the one that had stopped working after the shell explosion at the Somme. Countess Cecilia met him at the...
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