The Pale Dance

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2026-08-24 07:14:25 -

The Pale Dance

The brass key was cold, a small, heavy thing that felt wrong in Reginald Baxendale’s hand, like a tooth pulled from a jaw. It fit the lock of the St. Jude’s Orphanage gate with a click that echoed too loudly in the thin November air. He stood there, the key still in his fist, looking up at the building. It was a long, low structure of grey stone, the kind of architecture that seemed designed to...

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