The Pale Altar
Chapter One The Tuscan hills in the autumn of 1924 were a grinding of metal and leaf, the air thick with the copper taste of the mining season and the sharp, vegetal rot of fallen acorns. In the valley below, the rubber station churned its black slurry, a dark vein pulsing beneath the oak woodland, while the road that never stopped sounding hummed its low, persistent drone through the night....
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