The Pale Dance
The fire in the hearth was not a gentle thing, but a hungry, snapping beast that devoured the oak logs with a violence that seemed to shake the very stones of the chapel, and Margaret stood in the center of the nave, her hands bound with the thick, coarse hemp of the executioner’s cord, feeling the fibers dig into her wrists until the blood throbbed in time with her own terrified, hammering...
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