The Pale Tower
The gas lamps in the basement of St. Jude’s Asylum had burned for eleven hours and forty-two minutes when Elias Thorne finally counted the pages of the ledger, his fingers slick with the damp chill that seeped through the limestone floor and into the wool of his trousers. He was thirty-four years old, a man who had spent the last decade measuring the weight of other people’s silence, and he...
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