The Distant Cartograph
The letter from the Ministry of State Survey lay on the mahogany desk, its cream paper stark against the dark wood. Elias Thorne read it twice, his finger tracing the line item for his mother’s care: four hundred pounds a month, non-negotiable. He was forty-two. He had twenty years of service left before a pension that would barely cover half that sum. The winter banquet was in three days, and...
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