The Pale Fracture
Chapter One The windmill district of Buenos Aires groaned under the weight of the new weather, a plain of rusted blades turning against a sky that had forgotten the sun. The ferry crossing was silent, the water black and still as poured iron, carrying the last of the morning’s laborers across to the ship’s berth. I stood at the gate of the conventillo, my hand on the cold iron latch, feeling...
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