The Pale Circus

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2026-08-24 11:38:43 -

The Pale Circus

What does a body owe the hand that holds it? I asked myself this as I crossed the bog road, the mud sucking at my boots with a wet, hungry sound. I was Niamh Brennan, thirty-two, and I carried the weight of the winter in my satchel. The roof of the house at the end of the lane needed mending before the frost set in, but my brother Cillian was dying in the cellar, and the roof was only wood and...

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