The Pale Meridian
The ironworks town of Blackwood sat where the Derwent folded back on itself, a river bend that looked like a scar on the Yorkshire map. Clara Whitmore knew every fold of that valley — the soot-stained brick of the mill owner's villa on the ridge, the colliary tipple that shuddered at dawn, the narrow cobble streets where the children learned to walk between puddles of machine oil. She was...
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