The Golden Circuit
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, smelling of damp earth and iron. It was not paper, but a thin, translucent sheet of birch bark, pressed flat and brittle. Margaret held it in her gloved hands, the winter air biting through the wool. She was standing in the middle of the field, the frost crunching under her boots. The field was empty. The house was empty. Her brother, Thomas, was not here. He...
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