The Distant Cartograph
The ink costs four pence a drop, and you have used three hundred and twelve drops today. You count them not because the municipal archive requires a log of materials, but because the counting keeps the trembling in your hands from becoming a spasm. The room smells of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of the copper plates you are etching. Outside, the city of Oakhaven groans under a weight...
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