The Pale Path
The fog is thick tonight, Elias, thick as wool pulled wet. It presses against the lead cames with a weight that has nothing to do with the wind. You do not look up when Thomas says this. You are too busy mixing the putty, the oil and chalk grinding between your fingers with a grit that feels like sand. The Great Window is half done. The Duke’s deadline is the solstice, three days away. If you...
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