The Distant Cartograph
Act I The sound was not in the air but in the fillings of Rhiannon Tew’s teeth. She sat in the back office of the archive, the damp wool of her cardigan pressed against her ribs, and held the cracked ceramic bowl. It was a gift from Dr. Aris, her mentor, who had died three winters ago with the smell of coal dust still clinging to his collar. The bowl was chipped along the rim, a jagged white...
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