The Pale Door
Act I The sawmill at the edge of the canal ground its teeth against the ice, a mechanical shudder that traveled through the floorboards of the smokehouse where the meat hung in heavy, red columns. The air hung with the salt of the shore, a dry, stinging powder that coated the lungs and settled in the creases of the skin, a physical fact of the damp season that never quite arrived. Sijbrand...
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