The Distant Cartograph
The rain had not stopped for three days, a steady, gray sheet that blurred the edges of the manor house and turned the garden into a soup of mud and rotting leaves. Inside the study, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and old paper. Silas sat on a high-backed chair, his legs too short to reach the floor, swinging them idly. He was twelve, old enough to understand the weight of a look,...
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