The Pale Garden
The banquet hall of the Abbey of St. Jude’s was not built for light, but for the consumption of it, a cavernous vaulted space where the air hung heavy with the scent of rendered tallow, stale wine, and the damp, earthy rot of stone that had sweated moisture for three centuries. You sat at the far end of the long oak table, your hands folded in your lap, your fingers white and trembling beneath...
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