The Pale Meridian
The carriage stopped before the gate of the Abbey, and I did not move until the driver, a man whose face was obscured by the heavy wool of his hood, had stepped down and locked the wheels with a rattle of iron that sounded like a bone breaking in the cold. I sat in the darkness of the back seat, my fingers wrapped around a leather-bound book that I had not opened in three days, and I felt the...
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