The Distant Crown
Act I The frost on the glass was not white, but a deep, bruised violet that pulsed with a rhythm like a sleeping lung. Hilkka Nieminen stood at the gate of the parish, her boots sinking into the slush that had turned to ice under the weight of the Whispering Frost. She was thirty-four, a border guard with a limp in her left knee from a fall on the canal bank, and she carried a crate of...
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