The Wistful Letter
Chapter One Knowledge is a blade that cuts the hand which holds it. Orla Sheehy did not believe in saints, only in the precise geometry of decay. In the dim, ink-stained workshop of the printer, where forty-seven of the Old Brick kilns had once fired the clay for the village walls, she ground the final dose. Her brother, Seán, lay in the back room, his skin translucent as wet paper, the wasting...
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