The Hound of Whitby Abbey
The storm had been building since noon, a bruised purple wall of cloud rolling in from the North Sea, but Mary O'Brien had not noticed. Not with the rope still biting into her wrists, not with the smell of damp rot and stale beer filling her nostrils, not with the man sleeping in the corner whose breath had the wet rattle of a drowning fish. She waited until his snoring settled into a deeper...
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