The Pale Dance
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the Old Quarter into a mirror reflecting the low, bruised clouds. It was the year of the Silence, or so the priests called it, a time when the bells of St. Jude’s ceased to ring on their own accord and the shadows in the alleyways seemed to detach themselves from the walls and walk with a...
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