The Pale Tower
The iron-bound journal weighed three pounds, four ounces. I knew because I had weighed it on the kitchen scale the morning I left, a final, petty audit before the drive. The leather was slick with the cold damp of the car, gritty against my palms, and the brass clasp was stiff with rust. I counted the hours in the drive to Harrowgate, thirty-six miles of coastal road that wound up and down the...
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