The Distant Cartograph
The air in the Hall of Mirrors did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect of a place buried beneath the roots of the old oak groves in the highlands of Scotland, but rather of ozone and wet stone, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a metallic taste, signaling that the boundaries between the world of the living and the realm of the spirit had grown thin and permeable....
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