The Wistful Atlas
The crack runs through the center of the porcelain plate, a jagged white scar that splits the blue floral pattern in two. You hold it up to the light of the gas lamp, your fingers trembling slightly, not from the cold, though the air in the royal workshop is always damp with the smell of wet stone and turpentine, but from the sheer, absurd weight of the mistake. It is a beautiful plate. It is...
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