The Distant Journey
"You are late again, Thomas." The voice came from the shadows of the attic. It was not a shout, but a whisper, sharp as a razor blade dragged across silk. Margaret did not turn around. She stood before the window, her back rigid, watching the coal dust drift in the shaft of afternoon light. The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of damp wool and old paper. It tasted of iron....
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