The Pale Altar
The sky tore open above the moor not with thunder, but with a sound like wet tearing silk, a high-pitched shriek that silenced the wind and the distant sheepdogs simultaneously. Margaret Holloway stood in the middle of the gravel track, her hands gripping the straps of her canvas bag so tightly her knuckles turned the color of old bone. She was a junior archivist for the County Historical...
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