The Pale Letter
The wool was the first thing to go, and then the hem, and finally the shape itself, as if the garment had been eaten by a slow, invisible fire that burned only from the inside out. Margaret Holloway stood before the mirror in the long, cold corridor of the Inquisition House, watching the red thread unravel at the cuff of her sleeve, a single strand drifting down like a red vein severed from the...
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