The Pale Altar
The fire started in the ledger. That is how Arthur Pendelton remembered it. A spark from a tallow candle, a dry page, and the whole history of the Ashworth textile empire turning to ash in the center of the mahogany desk. It was not a dramatic flame. It was a quiet, hungry thing, eating the ink and the paper with a slow, deliberate grace. Arthur did not scream. He did not run for the...
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