The Pale Dance
The ink on the ledger page was warm, a damp heat that seeped into the pad of your thumb as you turned the brittle leaf, and you froze, your hand hovering over the next line of the headmaster’s final account. You had been at St. Jude’s for three years, long enough to learn that the building settled in the winter, that the pipes groaned in the walls like old men complaining about the cold, and...
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