The Pale Meridian
The needle pierced the skin of the fabric, and with it, the skin of the silence, as if the world outside the window were merely a suggestion that the wind could erase, leaving only the damp, metallic taste of iron in the air that coated the back of Clara’s throat. She did not look up from the bodice she was mending, the white silk of the corset laced tight against her ribs, a second skin that...
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