The Distant Metropolis
Act I The humidity in the longhouse swells the doorframes until the wood groans against the lintels, a sound like a man clearing his throat in the dark. I am Morag Strachan, and I am thirty-two years old, standing in the drafty hall of my ancestral home, desperate to secure the final deed of sale to the city council before the winter frost sets in. The air tastes of wet stone and old iron. My...
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