The Wistful Voyage
The wool is thick, dark, and smells of camphor and old smoke. It is Margaret’s coat, the one she wore the last winter before the fever took her, and it is too heavy for this humid March morning in Southampton. You are fifty-two years old, Elias Thorne, and your heart is a broken metronome, skipping beats in a rhythm that the ship’s doctor called a countdown rather than a condition. You board...
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