The Pale Tower
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Institute for the Rehabilitation of the Unsettled was a cavern of polished mahogany and cold air, where the scent of roasted lamb mingled irreconcilably with the sharp, medicinal tang of disinfectant. I sat at the head of a long table that stretched into the gloom, my hands folded neatly over the white linen, watching the other residents drift through the room...
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