Inkwell
My father drew maps for the Admiralty for thirty-one years and every one of them was a lie, and I did not learn this from him.
I learned it from the inkwell. Green-black, ordinary, chipped at the lip — and on the underside, scratched so fine you would only find it by accident, a set of coordinates that did not correspond to anywhere on any chart he had ever signed.
Keep your place, and listen
The app remembers where you stopped, reads chapters aloud, and works offline. Writing lives there too.
