"Don't look at the water, Sarah. The current is stronger than the ghosts."Elara’s voice was a rhythmic, frantic rasp against the howling gale of the English Channel. She held the tiller with a white-knuckled grip, her amber eyes fixed on the jagged, black silhouette of Sark rising out of the foam. The boat, The Catherine, groaned under the pressure of the swell, its timber shrugging off the salt spray like a dying animal. Behind us, the Brittany coast was a low, orange smudge on the horizon—the funeral pyre of the lighthouse."The drones are breaking off," I shouted, my voice torn away by the wind. I huddled in the cockpit, the "Hurt" in my shoulder a cold, throaching weight. I clutched the final leather-bound journal to my chest, the damp paper bleeding ink onto my linen shirt. "Silas got what he wanted. He burned the tower.""He burned the stone, Sarah! He didn't burn the names!" Elara yanked the tiller, the boat lurching into the lee of a massive granite cliff. "The 'Deletions' li
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