The Distant Cartograph
The ink had not yet dried on the final coordinate of the Meridian Survey when I realized that the map was breathing. It was a subtle thing, a rhythmic expansion and contraction of the vellum beneath my fingertips, a soft, wet pulse that seemed to emanate from the very center of the chart, from the place where the River Ouse met the ironworks of Blackwood. I sat in the high, dusty window of the...
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