The Pale Banner
The cloth is wrong. Elias Vance dropped the shuttle. It clattered against the wooden beater, a sharp sound that cut through the hum of the loom. He stared at the warp threads. They were grey wool, standard issue for Mr. Thorne’s winter coats, but where they crossed, they shimmered with a pale, sickly light. It was not the sheen of oiled silk. It was the look of old bone. "Stop fidgeting, boy,"...
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