The Paper Veil
The Empty Chair at Yorkshire Hall The marks began on a Tuesday. Eleanor counted them because counting was the only thing that did not hurt. The first mark was small, scratched into the plaster behind her bed with the point of a hairpin she had pried from her ear during chapel. It was nothing, really—just a thin line, no deeper than a fingernail scrape. But it was proof. Proof that she existed,...
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