The Pale Bridge
Ketil Dahl’s fingers were stained indigo, the dye of the reclamation yard seeping into the whorls of his skin as he scrubbed the rust from the bronze loom weight. He worked by the light of a single tallow candle, the flame trembling in the draft that swept through the barracks of straw pallets. The weight was cold, heavier than it looked, and he turned it over, examining the maker’s mark etched...
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