The Pale Meridian
The brass nib of the dip pen sits between your thumb and forefinger, cold and rigid against the skin. It is three in the morning, and the candle on the drafting table has burned down to a stub of wax that smells of tallow and old smoke. You are Elias, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last three hours trying to draw the final meridian line for King Aldous’s map of the Northern Reach....
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