The Pale Fracture
Chapter One "Can you hold the line, Niamh?" The question hung in the damp air of the workhouse dining hall, heavy as the wet wool of her uniform. She did not answer. She looked at the service revolver in her pocket, the one she had bought privately with the last of the strike fund, and felt the cold weight of it against her hip. The room smelled of boiled turnips and wet stone. Outside, the...
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