The Wistful Voyage
"Thorne. Get in here." Harbormaster Halloway’s voice cracked like a whip across the tiled floor of the office. I stood in the doorway, my collar stiff, the air in the corridor thick with the smell of brine and wet wool. The room was warm, heated by a coal stove that clanked softly in the corner. Halloway sat behind his desk, a man whose face had been weathered by decades of salt spray. He did...
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