Arthur Pendelton did not remember his parents' voices. He remembered the blue.
It came through the window of their Yorkshire drawing-room at half past two in the morning, not as light but as a presence—a sphere of azure fire, no larger than a man's fist, drifting through the closed glass as though the pane had been mist. It hovered over his mother's chair first, and she did not scream. She opened her mouth as if to speak, and then went still. The blue light passed through...
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