The Distant Cartograph
The ink was wet, and it was moving. I held the sheet of paper up to the single gas lamp in the interrogation room, my fingers stained black at the tips, watching the blue lines of the coastline shift like smoke in a draft. Silas Vane sat across from me, his hands bound with leather cord, his face a mask of calm indifference that made my jaw ache. He was not afraid. That was the first thing that...
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