The Distant Threshold
"You have three days, or I burn the ledger." Zainab Ansah did not look up from the silk sash, her fingers moving with the mechanical precision of a woman who had long ago ceased to view her hands as her own, for the threads were bleeding a thick, viscous ink that stained her cuticles black, and the light in the workshop was failing, leaving only the ghost of the afternoon sun on the dust motes...
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