The Pale Altar
Chapter One Ayesha Abbasi held the chipped porcelain bowl up to the light, her thumb tracing the jagged rim where the glaze had flaked away to reveal the raw, pale clay beneath. The air in the Ministry’s antechamber smelled of wet wool and stale ozone, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad taste. She was thirty-two, and her hands, usually steady enough to weld a vacuum seal on...
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