The Golden Scar
The winter of 1789 had settled over the delta of the Rance like a sheet of hammered iron, cold and absolute, and Camille Lambert remembered the weight of the ice before she remembered the sound of the breaking. She stood now in the ruins of the old parliament’s foundation, her hands raw from the frost, looking back at the night that had unmade her, the memory of the crack in the lake ice still...
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