The Pale Tower
The air in the High Spire does not smell of dust or old paper, as you might expect in a tower that has stood since the reign of Queen Victoria, but it smells of ozone and wet iron, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and makes your teeth ache. You are twelve years old, or perhaps thirteen, time has become a slippery thing here, and you hold the lantern not because you are brave,...
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