The Pale Circus
The brass gear in my palm was cold, colder than the marble floor beneath my feet, and it felt like a piece of ice that had been waiting for a long time to be found. I held it up to the chandelier light, turning it slowly so the facets caught the glare, and watched Lord Vane’s eyes track the movement with the dull, acquisitive focus of a man watching a bird fly into a net. The ballroom of Vane’s...
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