The Star-Crossed Seer
The storm came without warning. One moment Arthur Winslow was making his way through the woods beyond London, the next the wind had torn his walking stick from his hand and sent him sprawling into the mud. He lay there, blind eyes pressed to the earth, listening to the trees scream. He was seventy-six years old and had not seen the sun in thirty, but he could smell the ozone and know: this was...
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