The Faded River
Act I Did my father truly die of the fever, or did the water take him? The question sat in my throat, heavy as the iron kettle I lifted each morning from the stove in the scullery of the Prendergast estate. I was forty-two, a clerk of sorts in a house that had no business existing in this time of war and frost, and I stood before the medicinal herb garden, the thyme and valerian brown and...
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