The Pale Garden

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2026-08-20 11:30:01 -

The Pale Garden

The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Psychiatric Institute did not smell of perfume or fresh linen, but of old dust, damp wool, and the metallic tang of fear that seemed to seep up from the floorboards. Margaret Holloway stood at the edge of the room, her hand resting lightly on the cold brass railing of the balcony, watching the sea of faces below. It was a masquerade, technically, though no one...

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