The Distant Cartograph
The hall smelled of wet wool and stale beer. It was a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the throat. Margaret Holloway stood by the punch bowl. Her dress was black. It cut close to her ribs. The fabric stretched tight. She did not move. The party was in full swing. Laughter burst like gunfire. Glasses clinked. The sound was sharp. It cut through the noise. She watched the crowd. They were a...
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