The Pale Dance
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Industrial Orphanage did not smell of roasts and wine, as the annual report suggested to the Board of Directors in the city proper, but rather of damp wool, boiled cabbage, and the metallic tang of old fear that seeped through the floorboards and into the very marrow of the children who sat in rigid, terrified silence at the long, scarred oak tables. Sergeant...
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