The Wistful Voyage
The tea in the ceramic cup had gone cold, a stagnant pool of amber liquid that reflected the dim, flickering gaslight of the carriage window, and Elias Thorne stared into it with the peculiar, hollow focus of a man who has been waiting for a train that the schedule no longer acknowledges. Beside him, Margaret sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture rigid against the velvet...
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