The Pale Bridge
The bell in the tower did not ring so much as it exhaled, a long, ragged breath of bronze that rolled down the steep, slate-paved streets of the old town and settled in the marrow of the bones, a sound that had been waiting for centuries to finally crack the skin of the world. Margot sat at her desk in the high window of the Ministry of Veridical Records, the room thick with the smell of dried...
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