The Wistful Voyage
The house stood at the edge of the moor, a skeletal structure of stone and timber that seemed less built than grown from the earth itself. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that always preceded the storms which rolled in from the sea. Margaret Holloway sat at the center of the room, her hands resting on her lap, watching the dust motes...
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