The Pale Dance
Do you think they know we are watching? I asked the archivist, and he did not look up from his ledger. The light in the scriptorium was thin, a pale slice of afternoon cutting through the high, narrow windows, and it caught the dust motes hanging in the air like suspended judgments. I am Francisco Aguilar, twenty-four, a junior inquisitor at the high-altitude monastery of San Cristobal, and I...
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