The Pale Protocol
Act I Did you know that wool remembers the weight of the hand that knits it? Antonio Almodovar asked the question to the empty room, his voice sounding thin against the damp brick. He was forty-two, though he felt older, his joints stiff from the damp cold that seeped through the walls of the archive at fifty-eight of Stonecutter Alley. He wore the coat. It was Elias’s coat, a heavy thing of...
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