The Golden Crossing
The compass in the chart room of the St. Jude did not point north, but Jelena Ivanovic knew this was not a malfunction of the needle, but a failure of the map itself. She stood before the brass instrument, her hand hovering over the glass, feeling the grit of salt and old oil beneath her fingernails, a texture that had become the only thing she could trust in the humid air of the floating...
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