The Distant Cartograph
Hoda Rustom, a thirty-four-year-old archivist who had spent the last decade cataloguing the rot in the palace ledgers, found the vial of black ink in the drawer of the minister’s desk, and the liquid inside did not dry. It sat there, a pool of absolute darkness that defied the September air, which had turned suddenly cold and dry, a frost that had settled on the windowpanes of the Levantine...
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