The Pale Verdict
You dream of the ivy first. It is not the climbing kind, the sort that tangles in the eaves of your childhood home in Shropshire, but a vast, green curtain that swallows the stone walls of the Abbey Hall, creeping up the high windows where the stained glass depicts kings and saints with eyes that seem to weep. In the dream, the ivy is alive, pulsing with a slow, green heartbeat, and you are...
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