The Pale Altar
The needle pierces the silk. You watch the thread slide through the fabric. It is a smooth motion. Clean. You are in the back room of the estate. The air is cold. It smells of old stone and lavender water. You hold the dress against your chest. It is your masterpiece. It is also your death warrant. The silk is pale blue. It costs more than your house. More than your life. You know this. You...
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