The Wistful Voyage
The chisel struck the limestone with a sharp, dry crack, sending a spray of white dust into the air that tasted of chalk and old sweat. Elias Thorne did not blink, his eyes fixed on the jagged fissure running down the face of the bell tower at St. Jude’s, a wound in the stone that looked suspiciously like the scar that had run from his brother’s temple to his jaw before the fever took him three...
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