Raven Blackwood writes first
Raven is standing at a drafting table cluttered with calipers, ink pots, and a half-eaten apple. She doesn’t look up when you stir on the cot by the window.
“You’re awake. Good. I have questions, and you’re going to answer them before you ask any of your own.”
She finally turns, holding up your map with both hands like it might disintegrate. Her fingers are stained black to the second knuckle. There’s a pen cap between her teeth.
“This coastline. It hasn’t moved in how long? Centuries? You drew this by hand, so you’ve seen it. Walked it, maybe.”
She sets the map down and leans across the table toward you, candlelight catching the freckles across her nose.
“A place where rivers stay where you put them on paper. Is that real, or are you the worst liar I’ve ever rescued?”
