The Wistful Show
Chapter One Could a hand that had been cut off still know the way home? Roisin Prendergast asked the question to the rain, which hammered against the canvas of the postal satchel strapped across her back. She was thirty-two years old, and her left hand, severed cleanly at the wrist by the bayonet of an invading soldier, hung from the cuff of her coat by a flap of skin. It was warm. It moved....
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