The Pale Verdict
The chandelier above the long oak table at St. Jude’s Hall swung gently in the draft from the open door, casting a web of fractured light across the faces of the faculty, who sat in rows of high-backed chairs that looked less like seats and more like the pews of a judgment court. Elias Thorne stood at the head of the table, his hands trembling slightly as he raised a glass of claret, the liquid...
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