The Golden Downtown
Act I Cormac Brennan had worked the semaphore station for twenty-two years, a tenure that bought him nothing but a pension he would never live to see. He stood on the iron platform, his boots slick with the September frost that had come unannounced, and watched the lower wards of the town below. The air was thin and sharp, carrying the smell of brine and something else, something sweet and...
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