The Pale Bridge
The road out of Ashworth was not a path of stone or paved earth, but a ribbon of pale chalk that seemed to have been drawn by a trembling hand across the face of the darkening valley. It wound upward through the heather, which lay in heavy, bruised mounds of purple and brown, and vanished into a mist that tasted of iron and old rain. Elias Vane walked with the heavy, deliberate cadence of a man...
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