The Pale Circus
You count the hours like sacks of grain, heaping them onto the scales of your conscience until they tip. Three hours since you left the nursery. Three hours since the front door sealed with a click that sounded like a bone snapping. You are Elias Thorne, and you are running, though your legs feel heavy, as if the mud of the lane is still clinging to your boots. The manor of Blackwood Hall...
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