The Pale Altar
The ink was black, but under the gaslight it shimmered with a faint, iridescent purple, like the wing of a moth that had been pinned too long. Margaret Holloway held the quill with a hand that did not tremble, though her heart beat against her ribs with a violence that threatened to crack them. Around her, the dining room of the Ashworth manor was a tableau of excess, a feast for the eyes and a...
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