The Golden Crossing
The ledger entry reads: Compass, brass, cracked. Status: Seized. The ink is still wet on the page of the ship’s log, water-stained and curling at the edges, where Lyuba Sokolov sits in the debtors’ parlor, the forty-seven of the Tide Clock ticking a rhythm that has nothing to do with the hour. She is a border officer, though the uniform she wears is soaked through and stiff with river silt, and...
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