The Pale Altar
The ink was still wet on the ledger when Andre Gauthier’s hand stopped moving, the quill trembling above the line for the wheat shipment, the smell of damp wool and coal smoke filling the small cabin of the canal boat. He was thirty-four, an indentured archivist with two years left on his contract, and he wanted the permanent post that would let him marry Elise, a woman whose devotion was a...
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