The Pale Garden
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Orphanage, a decaying Victorian edifice perched on the cliffside of the fog-drenched town of Harrowgate, was a cathedral of dust and dim, trembling gaslight, where the air hung thick with the scent of boiled cabbage, old wool, and the metallic tang of impending rain, and you sat at the head of the long, scarred oak table, your hands folded neatly in your lap,...
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