The Pale Meridian
The bell did not ring so much as it shuddered, a deep, subsonic thrum that started in the stones of the foundation and climbed up through the soles of Margaret’s boots. It was not a sound of warning, but of arrival. The great iron gate of the Abbey of St. Jude, a place that had stood on the moor for six hundred years, had finally given way to the weight of the fog that had settled over the...
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