The Golden Oath
Act I I have spent the last three weeks counting the cracks in the plaster of our cellar, which floods to the third step, a habit born of the rain that has fallen for six days, cold as March in the height of midsummer. It is a strange weather for the Ethiopian highlands, a physical fact that chills the blood more than any ghost could. I am Neema Alemu, though the Inspectorate now lists me only...
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