The Pale Garden
The candle flame in the infirmary of the Abbey of St. Jude did not flicker so much as it breathed, expanding and contracting in time with the heavy, rattling respiration of Abbot Silas, who lay on the straw mattress with his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the stone ceiling. Brother Thomas, a novice of thirty-two years whose hands were stained permanently yellow from the tinctures he...
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