The Distant Promise
Could a man be dead and still holding his breath? Orla Tuohey asked the question to the wet air of the bog road, the words dissolving before they reached the manor walls. She was thirty-two, a master glassblower, though her hands had not touched a blowpipe in five years. The year was 1482, and the rain in Mayo was not weather; it was a physical weight, a grey curtain that soaked through her...
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