The Pale Garden
Chapter One Rania Darwish, thirty-two, has spent the last decade paying for silence with her own blood, a fact that the neighbors at sixty-three of Widow’s Landing know only as a superstition about the gate. I woke this morning with the taste of iron in my mouth and the dream still clinging to my skin like wet wool; in it, the garden walls bled black sap, thick and cold, pooling at the roots of...
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