The Wistful Atlas
Chapter One A notice posted on the door of the municipal surveyor’s office, dated the fourteenth of the month: The ink for the new boundary lines must be dry by the hour of Vespers. No exceptions. The smell of wet slate and rotting olive leaves hung in the air, a heavy, metallic tang that coated the back of Dolores Almodovar’s throat before she even opened her eyes. She sat up in the narrow...
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