The Pale Circus
The contract was for six months, not a lifetime, and the ink was still wet when the Ringmaster, a man with hands that looked like dried apricots, slid the parchment across the scarred wood of the table. Elias Thorne did not sign immediately; he watched the dust motes swirling in the single beam of light that cut through the canvas wall of the administrative tent, knowing that Mara was coughing...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews