The steam arrived before the island did—a gray tongue of vapor slitting through the morning fog off the Thames estuary. Arthur Pendelton gripped the rail of the H.M.S. Blackwood and tried not to think about his stomach.
Two weeks ago, he would have been fine. Two weeks ago, he was an Inspector with the Royal Investigation Bureau, freshly assigned to the Blackstone Isle matter, cleared for duty, boots polished, service revolver locked in his sea bag. Now he could not tell you whether he had been an Inspector or a lieutenant in the Afghan campaign, whether he had received a medal or a reprimand, whether his...
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