The Pale Altar
Chapter One Why does the white ash always fall before the stamp is refused? I wake to the cold draught slipping under the door of my cell, a chill that settles deep in the bones of my father’s grave, a place I have not visited in three years yet feel as clearly as the pulse in my own neck. I am Amparo Escobedo, thirty-two, and I am writing this from the dark because the light has been taken...
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