PROLOGUE
Some places exist between heartbeats — in that quiet fraction of a second when the world holds its breath. The Halcyon Grand Hotel was one such place. It sat at the edge of the Cornish coast like a forgotten thought, all pale stone and ivy and towers that scraped the belly of the clouds. People said it had been built in 1887 by a man who had seen something in the sea and wanted to get closer to it without getting wet. People also said that if you stayed long enough, the hotel began to know your name before you spoke it.
Elliott Crane was seventeen years old when he first saw it, and the first thing he thought was:
I want to photograph everything here before it disappears.
He should have paid more attention to that word.
Disappears.
