The Pale Door
The leather was split at the thumb. Miles held the glove up to the lantern light. It was a fine piece of work, once. Oiled calf hide, dyed the deep, bruised purple of a twilight sky. Now the dye had bled into the stitching, turning the seams a muddy brown. The leather had dried out. It was stiff. It no longer fit his hand. It was a dead thing. "Is it done?" Miles turned. The man standing in the...
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