The Faded River
The wool of the coat is thinning. You can feel the cold of the city seeping through the weave, a damp chill that settles into your bones as you sit in the back of the cart, surrounded by bales of undyed linen. It is a Tuesday in late autumn, the kind of grey, suffocating day that makes the cobblestones slick and the air taste of wet ash and rotting leaves. You are Margery, or perhaps you are no...
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