The Pale Tower
The dust in the attic of Thorne House did not settle; it hung in the slanted light like a suspended judgment, coating the rough-hewn stones of the Pale Tower’s uppermost tier in a fine, grey film that Elias Thorne found personally offensive. He was fifty-two years old, a master mason of thirty years standing, and his hands, which had once fit so perfectly into the grain of granite and...
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