The Distant Cartograph
The roast goose was carving down the center, its skin glistening with a buttered gloss that mirrored the gaslight, when you noticed the stain. It was not a wine spill, nor a tear in the linen, but a dark, wet bloom spreading across the parchment deed you had brought to the feast as a curiosity, a relic of the 1912 land transfer that everyone in Oakhaven treated as a settled matter of history....
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