The Pale Tower
The brass key is cold, a slab of metal that has forgotten the warmth of human skin, and I hold it in my left hand, which has begun to tremble with a violence that frightens me more than the fever does. I am Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and I have kept the light on the jagged coast of Mull for three years, a duration that feels less like service and more like a slow burial. The winter has...
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