CHAPTER I: THE CRYSTAL AT BLACKMOOR LIGHTHOUSE
The crystal appeared to me on a November evening in the year of our Lord 1888, washed ashore by the worst storm the Scottish Highlands had seen in twenty years. I had been keeper of the Blackmoor Light for three months—three months of solitude, of gales that shook the stone walls like a child shaking a toy ship, of watching the Atlantic consume horizon after horizon with a patience that never...
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