The Pale Altar
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Preservation of Memory hummed with a low, electric thrum, a sound like bees trapped in a jar of amber. It was a feast of the mind, a celebration of the archive’s centennial, where the air was thick with the scent of roasted lamb, old paper, and the metallic tang of ambition. Margaret Holloway stood at the periphery of the room, her hands...
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