The Pale Circus
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in a steady, grey sheet against the windows of the textile mill in Ashworth, blurring the world outside into a smear of mud and iron. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool and machine oil, a scent that had seeped into the fibers of Thomas’s coat until he was certain it lived in his blood. He sat at the end of the row, his hands...
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