The Pale Altar
The fog in the valley does not behave like weather; it behaves like a memory, settling into the cracks of the brickwork and the hollows of the eye sockets of the statues in the garden, and you find that you are standing in the kitchen of the manor house, holding a teacup that has gone cold an hour ago, watching the steam rise from the water in long, translucent ribbons that curl and dissipate...
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