The Pale Fracture
Chapter One I am writing this from the cold because the heat is gone, and the silence in the church basement is louder than the wind that has been stripping the shallow roofs all week. You will remember the smell of coal and wet wool before you see the room, a heavy, grey stench that clings to the skin like a second coat. I am Barbara Krawczyk, Warden of the Old Quarter, and I am breaking the...
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