Historical Fiction

MYRINE

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Spring was early in the year 3195 BCE. High in the Atlas Mountains, winter had again been unseasonably dry. It was March, a time when, in the past, patches of snow still clung in crevasses and in the shade of tall cedars, wide-leaved oaks and wind-swept Mediterranean black pines. Now, mountain lilies bloomed everywhere. They shook their little heads in the wind and turned the meadows purple. The air was warm and Myrine was comfortable in her chamois pants and short-sleeved vest. She slouched in her cushioned high chair and reached down to stroke Astra’s short spotted black and tan mane, as sh...

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