She would stand in purple darkness, back pressed against one of the marble pillars supporting the window’s arch, and strain her ears to catch scraps of conversation as they drifted up through the purple leaves and white flowers of the citrus trees. In Constantinople, somebody was always listening.--Written by Alexander SaxtonSupport The Wrong Station by subscribing at www.patreon.com/thewrongstation.The Wrong Station contains explicit content and mature themes. Episode-specific warnings can be found at www.wrongstation.com/c-w. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
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