The Pale Altar
Act I Francesco D'Angelo scrubbed the linen with a pumice stone, the grit digging into his knuckles as the September frost bit through the thin walls of the laundry. The water was black with suds and the residue of the asylum’s despair, a thick, greasy film that clung to the cotton like a second skin. He was thirty-two, a court exorcist in all but title, bound by contract to the Pale Altar, a...
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