The Wistful Atlas
Chapter One Could a man drown in dry air? It was the question that kept Andre Gauthier awake in the narrow bed of the sexton’s cottage, the rain hammering the slate roof with a rhythm that mimicked the ticking of the clock on the mantel. He was thirty-two, a customs inspector by trade and a gravedigger by necessity, his inheritance tied up in chancery like a fish in a net, while the January...
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