The Distant Ghost
"Get out of the way, you mule, or I’ll have you stripped of your post before the moon sets." Salvatore Barone stood at the base of the central column, his hand pressed against the rough bark of the ancient olive tree that grew in the heart of the rotunda. He was forty years old, a scholar of agrarian history, and he was dying. The dampness of the marble floor had seeped into his lungs, a cold,...
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