The Pale Tower
Act I The cold in the stone was not a metaphor, but a fact that settled into the joints of the hands and stayed there long after the fire was banked. I am Francesco Esposito, a mason of thirty-two years, and the winter rains were three days away, a deadline that did not care for my grief. The refectory wall stood incomplete, a jagged scar against the grey sky, and the Abbot, Donato, stood...
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