The Pale Meridian
The tithe ledger, page forty-seven of Widow’s Landing, read: Salt, 400 stones; Grain, 100 bushels; Debt, unpaid. I woke in the damp cellar of the manor, the air heavy with wet wool and old iron, and I knew the dream had come again. The pale meridian, a vine of bone-white bark, had been strangling a sleeping child in the dark, a domestic uncanny presence that had haunted our household for three...
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