The Pale Exile
"Look at it, Margot. Look at it with your own eyes, not your prejudice." My uncle’s voice was thin, stretched across the heavy silence of the library where the dust motes danced in the single beam of afternoon light that pierced the tall, arched windows. I did not look at him. I looked at the thing on the table. It was a small, pale bird, no larger than a sparrow, but its feathers were the...
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