The Faded Frontier
The dream had no horizon, only a vast, bruised expanse of wet clay and the low, mournful bleating of sheep that did not exist in this world, but which Margaret felt in her teeth, a vibration so deep it seemed to resonate in the marrow of her bones. She was standing at the edge of a cliff, or perhaps a riverbank, the air thick with the scent of rotting turnips and iron. In her left hand, she...
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