The Pale Letter
Chapter One Dmitri Mikhailov had not slept in three days, and his hands smelled of rot before he even touched the ink. He was forty, a scribe in the court of the Pale Tsar, and he was dying of a debt he had not yet paid. The meltwater rose in the cellar of the pawnbroker’s house, soaking the ledgers where his father had once counted coins. Dmitri watched the waterline creep up the brick, a...
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