The Pale Bridge
The stone bit into my palm, cold and jagged, as I pressed it against the damp wood of the floorboards. I was twelve years old, and my fingers were stained with the rust-brown of my father’s blood. The Lord of the Hollow lay in the high bed, his chest rising in shallow, wet hitches that sounded like a bellows failing in a blacksmith’s shop. I wanted to cross the river. I wanted to buy the...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare