The Wistful Atlas
Chapter One Esther Gault pressed her thumb against the tear in the parchment, the jagged edge biting into the pad of her skin. The smell of the attic was stale, a mixture of old dust and the sharp, metallic tang of the iron stove that sat in the corner, cold now but still radiating a ghost of heat. She was thirty-two, and her hands were steady, but the map under her fingers was not. It was a...
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