The Pale Meridian
The cold has a weight, you know. It settles in the marrow of the forearm, a heavy, liquid slate that turns the bone to chalk. You stand at the edge of the peat bog, the mist curling around your boots like the ghosts of the dead who walked this ground before you. The village of Ashford lies behind you, a cluster of thatched roofs and stone walls that huddle together against the encroaching dark....
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