The Distant Cartograph
The wool coat hung on the back of a chair in the corner of the high-ceilinged hall, a dark, heavy thing that seemed to absorb the grey light of the afternoon. It was not just a garment. It was a skin, a second body, woven from the shears of sheep that had grazed on the cold, wet hills of the north. Margaret stood before the window, her back to the room, her hands clasped behind her. She was...
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