The Pale Mist
The gavel did not strike. It hovered, suspended in the amber light of the High Court, a black disc of mahogany trembling in the air like a coin caught in a sudden updraft. Margot Vance did not look at the gavel. She looked at the mirror behind the judge’s bench, a vast, convex glass that distorted the room into a curved, smiling void. In the reflection, the court was not a place of law, but a...
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