The Distant Cartograph
The banquet hall of the Abbey of Saint Jude smelled of roasted pork and wet wool, a thick, cloying scent that hung in the air like a shroud, obscuring the flickering candlelight that danced against the stone walls while Margaret sat at the far end of the long oak table, her hands resting on her lap, hidden from the eyes of the other women who watched her with a mixture of pity and thinly veiled...
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