The Pale Circus

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2026-08-17 10:30:01 -

The Pale Circus

The salt wind off the Firth of Forth carried the scent of old circus tents — rotted canvas, stale popcorn, the ghost of greasepaint. Julian Ashford stood at the edge of Leith Harbour, his coat collar turned up against the damp, watching the last of the barges drag themselves into the slipways. Somewhere beneath the grey Scottish sky, a calliope wheezed its dying notes. He couldn't place it. He...

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