The Pale Letter
The letter lay on the table, pale as a bone picked clean of flesh, and Margaret stared at it until the ink seemed to blur into a dark, wet smear that might have been blood or might have been nothing at all, only the shadow of a word she was too afraid to read aloud in the vast, echoing silence of the great hall where the King sat upon his throne of white oak and gold, his face a mask of polite...
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