The Pale Altar
The notice pinned to the opium registry board read: All irregularities to be reported by dusk. Toivo Nieminen, thirty-two, a scribe whose ink-stained fingers trembled with a fever that had no name, stared at the paper. He held the pale altar-stone in his left hand, a slab of living quartz that pulsed against his palm like a second, colder heart. It was the only thing in the marsh-rot parish...
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