The Distant Nightmare
Chapter One Did the cold have a voice, or did Marco Vitale simply learn to hear it? He stood in the counting house, the air smelling of damp wool and the metallic tang of old ink, and watched the frost creep across the glass of the archive window. Outside, the vineyards on the terraced hills were dead, the late beans killed by a frost that had arrived without warning, a bureaucratic fact of the...
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