From Duty to Destiny (Preview)

Prologue

August 1884

“Denver! Denver Union Depot! Next stop!”

Almost there! 

Twenty-year-old Amy Parker edged forward on the red plush seat of the railroad car. She brushed a loose wave of brown hair into the somewhat rumpled chignon at the back of her neck, distressed by her trembling hand. A lump of fear lodged in her throat. Curious brown eyes, fringed with curly tan lashes, gazed out the smudged window. Amy stared with a mixture of anticipation and dread at the flashes of mountain the train chugged past. This would be the landscape she soon called home.

Would it truly become home? Like Ohio? Or would Colorado become another place that bound her like a tight-laced corset? Her high buttoned shoes, beneath the hem of a blue traveling suit, pressed into the floor as if she could push the train faster toward its destination. Or force it to a shuddering stop. Which would be the right choice?

Heart jumping like popcorn in a pan, Amy struggled for a measure of decorum and failed. Despite her fears about the future, making this journey had been the only choice. There could be no other.

It’s for Mama and Papa. What does my life matter if my parents are given a better life? I promised… No, I won’t think about him.

“Write as soon as you arrive,” Mama had admonished as she waved goodbye at their rural depot, a damp handkerchief clutched in gaunt fingers. “We’ll be waiting to hear how the trip went. How your meeting… how everything turns out.”

Amy couldn’t keep a wrinkle of aggravation from crossing her pale, creamy face. Lips stitched tight, she wished she’d been bold enough to argue back. To refuse Papa’s plan for her life. To hear Mama tell it, Amy was just going out West for adventure, a change.

She clenched the leather-bound book in her hands until her knuckles turned white. The title beneath her fingers read: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. As the librarian in tired, dusty Paint Creek, Amy had longed for lives as exciting and romantic as Miss Austen’s heroines. How she’d imagined being swept off her feet by a dashing young man—one certain man in particular! Her dreams had soared as high as the clouds, her heart wrapped snugly in thoughts of how much she loved him. Only him.

Until his crashing betrayal.

Amy had vowed, eyes reddened with several nights’ tears, to lock her heart up tight. Never again would she allow herself to care so deeply for another man. Never! She’d given up the idea of love. Spinsterhood would be her lot in life. She would not remember. There would be no point.

Going West, to Colorado, Amy resolved not to look back on anyone or anything.

“You’ve always longed for adventures,” Papa had said as he’d introduced the strange, incredible idea one evening around the supper table. “Now you’ll be living the stories in those books you’re so fond of, instead of stuck in the drudgery of a library, earning a paltry salary if the town sees fit to pay you.”

“But, P-p-papa,” Amy remembered stuttering. Terror had filled her heart at the enormous change this would bring to her life—a lonely, predictable life, but one she could manage. “I can’t! Please don’t ask such a sacrifice of me. Mama, please, make him see reason.”

Although Mama’s brown eyes had filled with tears, she would not contradict Papa.

“As your father, Amy, I feel this is in your best interests. The farm is heavily mortgaged. We owe the doctor for Mama’s illness last winter, as well as the mercantile. I bought the new plow and seed on credit, and if things don’t turn around—if we don’t have the money we need—we’ll lose everything and end up in the poor house. This is the only way. I feel it’s my duty to secure your future, too. You agree, don’t you?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Amy whispered to herself as she gazed out the train window.

Quick tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them away. The afternoon sun warmed her face as soot blew through to land in brown flecks on her new suit. The landscape outside showed a rugged country of mountains awash in sun-drenched shades of orange, red, pink, and deep blue. Intense, vivid, eye-watering colors, unlike the rather dusty greenery of Ohio. Through a small grove of trees, Amy could see glimpses of sparkling water—perhaps the South Platte River. She’d pored over maps and books on Colorado at the library, learning everything she could about the strange new place.

Scrubby bushes she’d never seen before lined the edges of the gleaming railroad tracks. In the distance, Amy could see the blurry edges of a town—tall brick buildings, rising smoke from hundreds of chimneys, and a haze of movement. Surely more people lived on one street in Denver than in all of Paint Creek.

“Denver Union Depot! Coming up!” The conductor sang out, swaying through the car in his blue serge uniform with shiny, gold buttons. An apple-cheeked man with a swooping handlebar mustache, his one claim to vanity, he’d answered Amy’s many questions with a soft-spoken Southern drawl.

As he passed her seat, Amy questioned him with a quivering smile, “How long will it be, Mr. Dutton?”

“Well, miss, near about five minutes,” he answered, pulling a silver pocket watch from his vest and peering at it with near-sighted blue eyes. “I like to give folks plenty of notice to get their belongings together.”

He tipped his squat blue cap and passed through into the next railway car sing-songing out the town to come. Amy shut the book she’d been pretending to read and stuffed it into her flowered valise in flustered anticipation. Right or wrong, I’m almost there. Time to make the best of it.

A sick churning filled her stomach as she dreaded the upcoming meeting. With him.

Oh, God, give me strength and acceptance.

“Almost here. Excited, are you, dearie?” asked the genial woman who’d overhung half Amy’s plush seat for the past morning.

“Yes, I am.” Amy answered dutifully. In her heart, she could speak her true feelings.

No, I’m terrified.

Ever since the woman had eased her ample bulk, clad in a magnificent calico of vibrant purple flowers, into their shared seat, Amy had fended off her gossipy questions. Perhaps as penance for her silence, she’d had to endure a recital, in excruciating detail, of every facet of Mrs. Witherspoon’s life. The woman openly admitted her tongue never rested. “Talk even in my sleep sometimes,” she’d chuckled. Ears ringing, Amy had no doubt the woman spoke the truth. She felt an intense sympathy for Mr. Witherspoon, a farmer near Stockton, California.

“Why did you say you were stopping off in Denver?” Mrs. Witherspoon questioned. “If you don’t mind my asking?”

“I didn’t,” Amy said but felt guilty at being so churlish. What harm could it do to answer a few simple questions? Maybe if she expressed the astonishing proposal in words, it would be easier to accept. “But, as a matter of fact”—is it my imagination, Amy wondered, or did Mrs. Witherspoon sit up straighter and pitch her ears forward like a hound?—“I’m coming to meet my husband to be.”

The man Papa sold me to in marriage.

The train pulled into the enormous brick station with a clanging, metal-clashing-metal screech that grated Amy’s ears. A loud whistle pierced the afternoon. Then a surge of black smoke billowed into the air. Before Amy could quite pull herself together, she was being herded along with other passengers along the aisle, down a set of stairs, and into a bright, sunlight afternoon.

Other passengers shouted greetings or scurried off in various directions. Amy stood, uncertain, biting a corner of her lip and glanced around. The telegram had said he’d be there to meet her train.

All around her, people hurried into the red brick station. Porters rushed past with loaded carts of trunks and suitcases, leather satchels. A child began to cry in a loud, piercing wail, and another voice called out, “Thomas, over here!” Scents assaulted Amy’s nose—coal oil, firewood, ladies’ toilet water, and a man’s overpowering pomade. Somewhere, a faint scent of lilacs perfumed the air, but it was lost in the odor of horses, men’s sweat, and a strange waft of other unrecognizable smells.

Amy pressed her gloved hands to her stomach, feeling it churn like she might be ill. The strange odors of the town, all the commotion, or fear?

A tall, well-dressed gentleman with a head of luxurious black hair and the bluest eyes Amy had ever seen stepped forward, a questioning look on his handsome face. Having seen the daguerreotype sent to Papa, she knew this was the man. Her heart beat like a caged bird wanting to fly free. A lump of fear lodged in her throat.

A second later, he came nearer and bowed respectfully. Tipping a wide-brimmed black Stetson, he spoke in an educated, well-modulated voice.

“Miss Parker? I’m Jamie Sullivan. Your groom.”

What have I done?

Chapter One

Paint Creek, Ohio 

April 1884

Five Months Earlier

“Thank you, Miss Parker!” The small, flaxen-haired girl grinned as Amy handed a book of fairy tales into her eager hands. “You always know the most thrilling stories to choose. I’m so glad you’re the librarian. I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

“You’re very welcome, Susie,” Amy answered with a practiced smile. “I love books, too. And I’m sure a girl as intelligent as you will find grander dreams than being a librarian.”

Ten-year-old Susie, one of the library’s most frequent visitors, gave Amy another adoring glance. With a friendly wave, she clutched the book to her white pinafore and danced out of the library.

When was the last time I felt happy enough to dance with joy?

Amy sighed and brushed a stray lock of brown hair back into the untidy bun at the nape of her neck. Her brown eyes, without their usual sparkle, gave a hopeful glance at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall. Surely this day had been long enough. Another eight hours dragging by in the tiny, stuffy Paint Creek Library in a strait-laced, worn-out town in Ohio. Every day the same people, the same books, the same life. One endless day after another.

Library. Ha!

Amy had read of grand libraries in other cities, massive brick buildings with hundreds, maybe thousands of books. Her library, achieved only after a year of pleading with the town’s leaders, might never grow beyond its current, makeshift space.

Twenty wooden shelves in the spare corner of Smythe’s Grocery stockroom. One window. One reading table. Four wooden chairs and a “desk” for the librarian sent over from the courthouse when the bottom drawers warped and refused to open. Even though Amy had tried to pretty it up with bright red checked curtains at the window and a blooming pot of red geraniums, the room’s plank walls closed tighter and tighter each day.

 A room where I’ve spent the last four long years of my life. Lonely years.

Other than Susie, there had only been a few other patrons to take home a book. On many days, no one came in and Amy was left alone to regret everything her life might have been. To let a few shameful tears slip out when she thought of Derek and all those happy dreams.

We’d have been married by now, perhaps had children. Instead, here I am… And Derek… No, best not think about him!

A surge of loneliness washed over Amy. Heart aching, she shoved the book Susie had returned into a slot on a shelf. Keeping busy was the only way to chase away such gloom.

Grabbing a broom, Amy began her nightly chores to close the library. She swept the wooden floor with a vigor unnecessary for so small a space. As she usually did in times of troubled thoughts, she forced herself into a happier mood for her parents’ sake. Trying to help Mama and Papa seemed to be her lot in life now.

“Mama will have supper on the table by the time I get home,” Amy spoke to herself, glad no one was around to overhear. If not, Amy would hurry to cook an evening meal. Perhaps warm up last night’s stew and cornbread. Or maybe today had been one of Mama’s “good” days.

As she hurried to put the broom away and grab up her reticule and bonnet, Amy nibbled a corner of her lip. Mama’s health had been better in the last few months, even without the visit to the specialist in Columbus. Maybe she would get well without the operation old Doc Jennings recommended.

“Good evening, Mr. Smythe,” Amy greeted the storekeeper as she hurried through the stocked part of the mercantile. She debated on whether to spend a few precious pennies on some lemon drops for Mama but decided against it.

“Evenin’, Amy. See you tomorrow.”

Amy nodded, a heavy weight settling over her heart.

Yes, tomorrow and every other morning until I die.

***

Half an hour into dinner, her father spoke a life-altering sentence over the fried ham and potatoes.

“Daughter, I’ve made a decision, and I trust you will be agreeable to it. I’ve received confirmation today in a telegram.”

“What’s that, Papa?”

In those last few seconds of life as it had always been, Amy spooned out more fried potatoes and smiled at Mama’s placid face.

“I’m so happy you’re feeling better today, Mama. This meal is tastier than anything I could cook. And the aroma of that apple pie baking smells like ambrosia.”

It wasn’t often Mama could stand at the black iron stove to cook a full meal. To find supper already on the table, set with their only set of real china and a clean, linen tablecloth, plus apple pie, Amy sensed a celebration of some sort. Afraid to question this minor miracle, she hurried to wash up and take her place at the table.

Mama’s gaunt cheeks, sunken from her illness through the winter, had a pinker color, and her brown eyes glowed with a lively sparkle. Not the dull, suffering glance she usually gave Amy. “Thank you, dear. I’ve felt so much better since Papa made the decision. It’s a true blessing. The Lord has answered our prayers.”

Amy turned to face Papa and the incomprehensible words.

“I’ve arranged for you to marry a wealthy man in Denver.”

At first, she thought Papa might be joking. Before Mama got ill, when Amy and her brother, Matt, were children, Papa had been quite a tease. Amy could remember little snippets of joy from her childhood. Times when she and Matt laughed until their stomachs ached from giggling so hard.

Amy decided to play along with the joke after noticing the happy delight on Mama’s face. She took a bite of ham, chewed, and swallowed before asking. “And just who is this man?”

“His name is Sullivan. His son’s name is Jamie. I heard about him through Reverend Thompson, so I’m sure he’s as he says. The reverend met Mr. Sullivan years ago and has kept in touch with him. He has several children and lost his wife several years ago.”

Still believing it all to be a joke, Amy spooned out another mound of green beans and handed the bowl to her mother. “So, I’m to become a wife and mother all at once?”

Papa scowled, set down his mug of coffee with a thump, and stared at her—a look that sent a jolt of fear through Amy’s body.

He’s serious! The food in her stomach churned in an uneasy tumble.

“Of course not! Mr. Sullivan isn’t in need of a wife. It’s his son, Jamie. He’s twenty-five, I believe, and needs a respectable wife.”

Papa’s face, as tanned and coarse as leather from years spent in the sun, glared at her with a look she and Matt had called his “stern trouble” look. When they were younger, it often came right before punishment or a scolding. Papa’s almost black eyes glared at her as if she were a child, his lips crimped in annoyance.

“Mr. Sullivan wishes a wife for his son. I have arranged for you to marry him.”

The fork slipped out of Amy’s hand. “You can’t mean…” The words caught in her throat. “Papa, are you serious? Mama, does he mean…”

“It’s for the best, dear.” Mama spoke in her placid tone, as if telling Amy all would be all right. It was Mama’s usual way of dealing with life to ignore anything unpleasant.

“Mr. Sullivan and I have been exchanging letters for the past few months. He has agreed to pay off my financial debts as well as to assure your future, daughter. His son is quite wealthy on his own and will provide for you handsomely. I can assure you that this match will provide you with financial security, and will save our family from financial ruin.”

“You…” Amy almost couldn’t get the words out as she stared at Papa. “You sold me to this man to pay off your debts?”

“What a horrid thing to say!” Mama snapped, livelier than she’d been in years. The last time she had reacted in such a way, Amy had been ten and had her palms soundly smacked with Mama’s wooden spoon. That time, Amy had called her brother, Matt, a name. “Your father has done what he thinks best for all of us, including you, daughter. You will have a bright future, not be stuck in that disgrace of a library. You will have a home and a family of your own.”

Stunned, Amy could only sit and stare from Mama to Papa. They looked like her parents, spoke like them, but suddenly she felt as if someone else had taken their place.

“It’s going to be hard to let you go.” For the first time, Papa’s voice sounded as if he might find this as difficult as Amy did. “But I feel it’s my duty to secure your future, too. Jamie Sullivan sounds like a fine young man. He’s respectable, wealthy, and his father owns a silver mining operation as well as other businesses. Jamie is the mining engineer.”

“Just think.” Mama stood and brought the apple pie over to the table. “Instead of reading adventures in all those books, you’ll be living one yourself. Maybe you’ll even fall in love with this man after a time. Many arranged marriages begin with friendship first.”

But I don’t want to live an adventure in Denver. I wanted to be here—with Derek.

Mama sliced the pie and sat a plate before Amy. Even though it was her favorite, she couldn’t lift the fork to her lips. Under the table, she clenched her cold fingers in the lap of her blue gingham dress. She knew one thing at that moment. She could not disappoint her parents. Not after one look at Mama’s shining face and the wrinkles of worry across Papa’s forehead.

In a voice that sounded unlike her own, she asked, “When must I go?”

“Mr. Sullivan will send your train fare next week. He’s asked you arrive by the end of August. That should give you plenty of time to find someone else to take over the library and pack.” The worry wrinkles eased somewhat as Papa slid a fork into his apple pie. “This will work out well for all of us. You agree, don’t you, Amy?”

“Yes, Papa.”

There was nothing else to say. Even though knots the size of melons grew in her stomach and her voice came out strained, she would not voice a complaint. No matter how she feared marrying a man she had never met.

In the days after that awkward dinner, Amy had come to reluctant agreement with Papa’s plan. One look at Mama helped her to overcome her own feelings of hesitancy. Just knowing the family finances were solved, Mama went about with a brighter outlook and even sang hymns as she worked.

I’ll do anything if it means keeping Mama well.

Papa brought home a new black leather trunk to pack up Amy’s clothes, books, and cherished possessions. Some days, she was certain she’d have to tell him she could never leave. Almost every night she drenched her pillow in tears, fighting down fearful thoughts of leaving.

One day while packing, Mama came into the bedroom to hand Amy a gift. “I want you to have these for your new home. Even if your husband is wealthy, these are a part of your heritage.”

“Mama, they’re lovely.” Amy held the fragile tea pot of white bone china, delicately painted with a spray of wheat and goldenrod. Four matching cups with curved handles, along with a sugar bowl and milk pitcher completed the set.

“They belonged to your great-grandmother, Iris,” Mama said, with a sheen of tears in her eyes. “I was just a tiny girl when she died, but she told my mama I was to inherit the set after she passed. I saved them for the day when I’d have a daughter.”

“I shall cherish them, too,” Amy said as she reached out to hug her mother’s frail shoulders.

Mama returned the hug and spoiled the mood with a sly wink. “Maybe not too long from now, you’ll have a daughter to pass them along to.”

A child!

Another wave of revulsion swept through Amy’s body. After she married this man, would he not presume they live as husband and wife, have children? The idea sickened her. Even though she’d let her daydreams imagine such pleasures with Derek, the thought of this man— Jamie—touching her made her skin crawl.

As always, Amy wondered why this Jamie could not find a wife in Denver. Did he know no one he could marry? Why did his father arrange a marriage with a perfect stranger? She didn’t feel she could ask Mama or Papa such a question. Amy had no close friends who would even begin to understand, except for Derek.

Oh, Derek!

“I’d better find some towels to wrap around all this,” Amy said. As if speaking about ordinary things could take her mind off what awaited her in Denver.

“Maybe in Matt’s old dresser,” Mama had said, without the usual hint of sorrow at the mention of his name.

Amy opened the old walnut dresser in Matt’s room. It had long ago been emptied of his belongings, used now to store old towels and rags. Amy wanted to place some of the towels in her trunk to protect the fragile tea set.

Amy pulled out a small leather pouch, tucked in a forgotten corner of the dresser. Inside were parchment pages, each with a pressed wildflower on the page. The care and attention could have only been done by Matt. How he loved being outdoors! She paged through each flower, reading the names, staring at the limp, crumpled brown remains. Many petals fell apart at her touch.

A small piece of stationery fell from the packet. Amy recognized Matt’s big sprawling handwriting, the blots of ink where he’d been in too much of a hurry to be cautious. As she read the words, tears of regret coursed down her cheeks.

Dear Amy, I wanted to make you a special gift for your thirteenth birthday, so I pressed all the wildflowers you love best. I also wanted to write a note to tell you how special you are to me, how I cherish my sweet little tagalong sister.

There are times when you fret because you think you aren’t as pretty or as smart as the other girls at school. But you do not see yourself as I see you. When I look at you, I see a brave, courageous, determined girl who will one day be a woman of strength and beauty. You are a person I admire with all my heart, sweet sister. Never forget your true worth.

Love, Matt

His loving words stiffened Amy’s backbone. A small measure of peace filled her heart almost as if Matt’s comforting arm was around her shoulders.

I can be strong. Matt would expect it of me.

Amy placed the leather pouch lovingly into the truck. Tears streamed down her cheeks at all she was leaving behind in Ohio.

Will I ever come home again?

Chapter Two

Denver, Colorado

June 1884

Three Months Earlier 

“Jamie! How many times must I remind you that you need to see the men in Mine Four get that scaffolding into place before the end of the week? Mr. O’Malley tells me that the new vein of ore will be ready to be worked once we get men into that tunnel. Have you ordered the lumber yet? Made plans to have it delivered to the work area?”

Jamie Sullivan sighed and placed a hand along the back of his neck. He ached from bending over a ledger book with specifications of the new drift shaft. The numbers all ran together after a while and he desperately wanted out of this stuffy office and away from this prison of a leather chair. He yearned to be out in the sun, tramping up a mountain with only the birdsong and rustle of leaves, not the continuous clatter outside the soot-smudged window. The pounding and pulsing of a city hemming him in, along with the weight of a successful mining operation.

“What’s wrong with you, my boy? Did you find anything wrong down in Mine Four? I thought O’Malley had shored up those timbers as I asked. Did you find anything amiss.”

“No, Father. There was nothing wrong. I’ve spoken to Mr. O’Malley. Yes, I have ordered the lumber and arranged for delivery. The men should be able to start right on schedule. I’ve had a crew putting in another ventilation shaft to prevent any more problems.”

A week before, several miners had been overcome by methane gas. It was only quick action on the part of Mr. O’Malley and his crew that pulled them out in time to save their lives.

Standing, Jamie stretched, hoping to get the crick out of his neck and the ache out of his back. He walked slowly over to stare out the window into sunlight obscured by a smoky haze. The mines of the Sullivan Mining Works were underground, but dust and dirt filled the air like an ominous cloud. The clatter of the small carts used to pull ore from the earth crashed and banged along the tracks all day long. Jamie often felt as if his ears heard the infernal noise even in his sleep.

“Well, son, something appears the matter. What about those timbers O’Malley felt might crack in Mine Two? Are you assured of their safety?”

Before answering, Jamie stared at the mountain before him.

Although he knew silver was needed, it kept so many men including his father with jobs and pay, Jamie hated he intrusion of the mines in the mountains. He’d prefer them in their natural state with just the plants and animals—not gaping holes in the ground where men burrowed into dark caves like moles.

“Yes, Father. I had O’Malley show me where the men thought the timbers might be in danger of cracking. We checked them over thoroughly. I told him I’d stake my life on going down there with the shoring we have now. Just as a precaution, I ordered him to have the men replace several of the overhead beams.”

“Good, good, that’s all I needed to hear. Alexander!” Mr. Sullivan strode briskly to his office, calling out for his office manager. “As soon as Jamie finishes up those specifications, get them down to O’Malley so he can requisition more shoring for Mine Four. Then make sure the men following that vein know they will be opening a new tunnel by early next week. Hire on more men if need be.”

“Yes, sir.” Alexander took the papers handed to him and gave Jamie a wink as he walked past his desk. Jamie returned a half-hearted smile.

Alexander Bennett had been his father’s friend and office manager for years. A tall, loose-limbed man, he’d always put Jamie in mind of Abraham Lincoln with a shock of flyaway brown hair and a long, sloping nose. His chestnut eyes looked at life as an amusing adventure, and a merry grin rarely left his face. Although his father often called Alexander his office manager, in truth, Alexander was more like a butler or a manservant who handled a lot of his father’s life. He lived on the family’s estate in his own cottage and was always ready to lend a listening ear to Jamie’s complaints about his father’s overbearing attitude.

“Jamie, come in here a moment, please,” Mr. Sullivan ordered. “I’d like to speak with you about something else.”

“The master summons,” Alexander whispered as he walked past Jamie with a reassuring thump on the shoulder. “Brace up, lad.”

Alexander’s confidence was enough of a boost for Jamie to take a deep breath and walk into Father’s expansive office. The room was a man’s room, no doubt. A massive walnut desk and leather chair dominated one corner by a row of windows heavily draped in burgundy curtains. Two of the richly paneled walls were filled with books on mining, ore, history, and a dozen other of his father’s varied interests. Another wall held a shelf of mementos, framed daguerreotypes, and a case of antique firearms. Above a brick fireplace hung a large, ornately framed oil painting of Jamie’s mother, Isabel.

The office showed the world his father was an impressive man, one used to getting his own way.

“You wished to speak to me?”

“Yes, I did. What’s bothering you, my boy? You’ve had a face as long as gloom for months now. Even O’Malley mentioned it to me the other day. He said it’s caused some concern among the miners. They feel you are withholding some bad news from them.”

Jamie sighed. “Nothing’s bothering me, Father. I’m sorry if the miners feel it does. I had no idea my thoughts and feelings were of any concern to them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to work.”

“Not quite yet, son. I’ve come to a decision. One that I hope you will be agreeable to. I’d like to discuss it with you. Shut the door, please.”

Inside, Jamie groaned. He knew his father wanted the best for him. He never doubted his father had an abiding love for all his children, and as the eldest, Jamie was the favored son, the one to take over his father’s vast mining empire. There was just one problem.

Jamie didn’t want the Sullivan Mining Works. He wanted freedom.

He despised everything about mining. Years before, his father had insisted Jamie work with some of the other miners, down in the deep, dark cavernous mines, only a candle to light the way as they chipped away at a vein of silver.

He hated it. The dark, the damp, being enclosed. It was like being in a suffocating tomb.

---

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