The Wistful Petal
March 12 "Margaret, hold on to the door." The voice was Elias’s, but it sounded thin, stretched over the distance of the platform. I was thirty-four, standing in the grey drizzle of the London terminus, my coat wet at the shoulders, my hands white-knuckled on the brass handle. He was stepping into the carriage for Zurich, his new post, his escape. He looked back, his face a mask of that...
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