The Distant Ghost
Act I The terraced hillsides of the mountain kingdom stretched out under a sky scrubbed raw by three days of sirocco, the air so thick with dust that the cash registers in the valley below clattered like dry bones. In the longhouse, where the winter cold had finally broken through the stone, Dimitra Papathanasiou stood before the mirror, adjusting the collar of her uniform. She was fifty-eight,...
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