The Wistful Atlas
The dream was not of darkness, as one might expect for a man of his station, but of a table set with a feast that did not exist, the smell of roasted goose and spiced wine hanging in the air so thick it tasted like copper on the tongue, a sensory hallucination that clung to his waking mind with the tenacity of wet wool. Arthur Pendelton, a scholar of the old ways, a man who had spent his life...
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