The Pale Meridian
The locomotive exhaled its final, rattling breath of steam into the freezing air of the Northumberland moors, a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to drain the very life from the iron chassis, leaving the train sitting dead and silent on the single-track line like a wounded beast waiting for the butcher’s axe. Arthur Pendelton stood in the open doorway of the observation car, his leather coat...
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