The Pale Letter
"You are late again." The voice came from the doorway, thin and reedy, cutting through the low hum of the out-of-tune piano in the hall. Giovanni Palermo did not look up from the parchment. He was forty-two, a scribe by trade, though his hands had long since forgotten the grace of the quill in favor of the heavy, mechanical work of hauling tow-trucks across the orchard country. The light in the...
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