The Pale Circus
Astrid Holm, fifty-two, held the silver circlet in a fist that had forgotten how to open, her knuckles white against the tarnished metal while the wind tore at the polytunnel glare outside the ruined monastery wall. She was not cold, though the Stockholm archipelago bit into her bones with a wet, freezing persistence that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the...
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