The Distant Cartograph
The blood in the Great Hall had a coppery smell, thick as rust, but it was not rust. I knew the difference because I had scrubbed both for six years. My name is Thomas, and I am twelve. I am the scullery boy in the house of Lord Vane, a place of high ceilings and low wages where the stone remembers everything we try to forget. My hands were raw, the skin split and weeping under the lye soap, as...
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