The Golden Visit
Act I Could a woman hold a bridge together with her hands, or would it simply slip through her fingers like water? Sigrid Strand stood at the edge of the Shattered Bridge, the wind biting at her face with a cold that had no season, and she asked the question aloud to the mist. She was forty-two, a healer in a town where the sickness came faster than the cure, and her husband, Einar, lay three...
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