The Pale Tower
The rain in the valley did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the back of the moving ambulance, his hands bound not by rope but by the rigid, unyielding stiffness of his own fingers. He held the brass compass in his lap, its lid slightly ajar, the needle trembling against the glass with a frantic, invisible energy....
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