The Pale Garden
Silas. The name was not spoken so much as dragged across the damp stone floor by the Head Nurse, a sound like a boot heel on wet slate. She stood in the doorway of the infirmary, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her grey wool gown, her posture rigid with the specific tension of a woman who has learned to hold her breath for hours. She did not look at him. She looked at the iron keys hanging...
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