The Wistful Voyage
Act I The light in the distillery watchman’s booth at one hundred and nine of Widow’s Landing was the color of old brass, a yellow so thick it seemed to have weight, pressing against the glass panes until the fog outside ceased to be a visual phenomenon and became a physical barrier that ate the sound of the bells before they could reach the interior. Clifford Sturgis, forty-two years old and...
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