The Pale Garden
I woke with the taste of iron and old roses on my tongue, the air in the attic chamber thick with the scent of decayed velvet and something sweeter, more cloying, like lilies left too long in a vase of stagnant water. The sun had not yet risen over the grey skyline of the city, a jagged tooth of stone and iron that pierced the low, bruised clouds. I was Margaret, though the name felt like a...
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