The Pale Letter
The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Academy for Gifted Youth smelled of roasted pheasant and damp wool, a cloying mixture that clung to the back of the throat and refused to be cleared. It was a celebration of the Mid-Term Scholarships, an event where the faculty, dressed in stiff black suits that seemed to absorb the light, lined the long mahogany tables like sentinels guarding a treasure they did...
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