The Pale Meridian
Could a stain wash out of skin? Fernand Fournier held his hands up to the slant of morning light, watching the iron-dark fluid seep into the whorls of his palms. He had spent twenty years as a gendarme in this frontier county, sharpening knives for farmers who never asked where the steel came from, and now, at thirty-two, he wanted only the pension that his service promised. The White Orchard...
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