The Distant Whispers
Giuseppa Costa had always believed that the fog was a mercy, a thick, damp blanket that smothered the sharp edges of the Tuscan hills and the metallic taste of the air, but by the time the border closed on Sunday, she knew it was merely a wall. She stood in the back room of the apothecary at one hundred and nine of Candlewick Row, the heat of the midday sun pressing against the single pane of...
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