The Pale Altar
Act I The air in the canal town held its breath, a dry cold that preserved rot as clearly as it preserved fruit. Xochitl Macías stood at the head of the long table in the staff room of the closing school, the wood groaning under the weight of the silverware and the silence. She was thirty-four, an inspector of the Ironworks’ local branch, and her left hand rested on the tablecloth, fused to the...
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