The Distant Cartograph
The dampness in the cellar of the Old Hall does not smell of rot, as you might expect for a place that has been buried beneath the weight of the earth for three centuries, but rather of wet iron and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clings to the back of your throat and refuses to be washed away by the stale air of the midday sun that filters through the single, high-set...
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