The Wistful Voyage
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the world into a blur of wet slate and bruised sky. Inside the grand, decaying manor of the Holloway estate, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang of rust. Colonel Arthur Penhallow sat in the high-backed leather chair by the fireplace, his posture rigid as a plumb...
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