The Pale Circus
Thorne. The name was spoken by Deputy Miller, a man whose voice carried the specific, dry rasp of someone who had spent too many years shouting over the wind in this valley. It was not a greeting, but a summons, delivered from the doorway of the mayor’s office where the air smelled of stale coffee and wet wool. I stood in the center of the room, my hand resting on the back of the mahogany...
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