The Wistful Incense
The salt pans of Auvergne stretched like a cracked eggshell under the low, heavy haze, the water in the basins turning a dull, opaque brown as the heat pulled the moisture into the air. Beyond the white crust of the evaporation pools, the dead volcanoes rose in jagged, bread-loaf shapes, their peaks lost in the mist that made the far shore a rumor rather than a fact. Celestine Lambert, twelve...
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