The Pale Bridge
You’re going to have to sign this, Elias, or I’ll have your head on a pike by Thursday, and I don’t care if the iron is singing to you; it’s a piece of metal, not a god, and you’re a man who owes the town a working span, not a poetry recital. Mayor Vane stood at the edge of the inspection platform, his breath pluming in the cold air that smelled of wet rust and diesel, his face a mask of...
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