The Distant Clue
Act I Youssef Habib dragged the bronze mirror across the packed earth of the lighthouse yard, his boots slipping in the dry dust. The wind off the Ming coast was a physical weight, pressing against his chest, stripping the paint from the white walls of the Tunis outpost. He was forty-five, and his hands shook, not from age, but from the cold that lived in the joints of men who had spent too...
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