The Distant Crown
The reclamation yard stretched out under the low, gray sky, a graveyard of rusted engines and broken pistons where the wind whistled through hollow chassis. Opal Quimby stood among the scrap, his hands slick with the grease of dead machines, looking toward the ridgeline where the paddy fields turned monsoon-green in the distance. He was the weigher for the foundling house, a job that required a...
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