The Golden Myth
You are bleeding. The red is warm. It soaks into the grey wool of your cloak. You feel it spread. A wet heat against your ribs. Who did this? Look at her. Margaret stands there. Her face is pale. Her hands are still. She holds a knife. The blade is black with rust and blood. "Go on," she says. Her voice is low. It is soft. It is the voice of a mother soothing a child. It is not the voice of a...
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