The Pale Meridian
Chapter One "The ink is bleeding again," Opal Vance said, his voice flat and dry as the parchment beneath his quill. He did not look up. The scriptorium was cold, a damp chill that seeped through the stone floor and settled in the joints of his knees. Outside, the wind tore at the bare branches of the oak tree, a sound like tearing cloth, but inside the air was still and heavy with the smell of...
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