The Golden Crossing
The wind that takes the shallow roofs of the Central Asian plain does not care for the bronze-casting clan’s debts, nor for the new toll on the bridge, nor for the crop pledged twice over to the moneylenders; it simply strips the thatch from the eaves and scatters the salt of the oath renewed in the courtyard, leaving the air tasting of iron and dust. Parvin Rahimi, a thirty-two-year-old royal...
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