The Pale Dance
The report is wrong, Julian. It has to be wrong." I said it before he had even finished unbuttoning his high-visibility jacket, the smell of wet wool and diesel exhaust clinging to him as he stepped into the rotunda. The air inside the old palace was thick with the scent of wet lime and ancient dust, a dry, chalky odor that coated the back of my throat. I was forty-five years old, and my hands...
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