The Wistful Atlas
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a cold, insistent mist that clung to the wool of Silas Vane’s coat and turned the heather of the Scottish Highlands into a bruised and trembling thing, a landscape that seemed to bleed a dark, metallic color into the sky which was the color of old pewter and the memory of iron. Silas, a man who had spent the better part of three decades chasing...
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