The Distant Cartograph
The bill for the silverware lay on the oak table, its edges curled slightly from the damp air of the workshop, and Elias Vane stared at the total as if it were a diagnosis. Forty years of chiseling copper, of breathing in the metallic tang of acid and the sweet, rotting smell of varnish, had not prepared him for the weight of that number, or for the way his own hands, resting beneath the...
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