The Pale Door
Chapter One Jing Zhang owed the temple granary forty taels of silver before the ice storm felled the elms on the cliff path. I woke holding the shard of the river-ghost charm, its porcelain edge biting into the meat of my palm, a jagged mirror of the door I had dreamed of shattering. The ferry queue was already forming in the sleet, men and women huddled under oiled paper, the carts on the...
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