The Pale Exile
"You'll want to check the ledger again. The numbers don't balance, and I don't have time for errors." Opal Waggoner looked up from the needle. The thread was thick, heavy with the weight of the wool, and her fingers were numb from the cold seeping up through the floorboards of the greenhouse. It was the Opium War era, or so the newspapers claimed, though here in the outer boroughs of New York,...
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