The Pale Bridge
In the dream that had haunted Marguerite Deverell for the better part of a year, the sky was not a sky at all but a vast, bruised membrane of pale violet, stretched taut over the town of Oakhaven like a shroud draped over a corpse, and beneath that unnatural canopy the cobblestones of the High Street did not reflect the light of the sun, which had ceased to rise, but instead absorbed the...
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