The Pale Garden
Chapter One Clifford Yancey’s hands shook as he ground the ink, the pestle scraping against the stone with a sound like dry bones cracking. He was thirty years old, a coffin maker by trade, but here in the cold snap that had burst the pipes of the parish, he served as a scribe for the mission, his only cargo a seized box of contraband hymnals. The Liber Mortis lay open on the desk, its vellum...
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