The Distant Summer
Juma Desta was thirty years old, ship-born, and currently hauling a crate of rusted turbine parts up the slick stone steps of the windmill district, her back screaming in protest against the humidity that had settled over the coast like a wet wool blanket. The rain had been falling sideways for six days, a physical fact that turned the cobblestones into a river of grey slush and made every...
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