The Pale Tower
Chapter One Could a man save his soul by selling a book that ate it? Ivor Cirrus asked the question to the empty air of his shop, a space that smelled of rusted iron and the stale sweat of a dozen men who had not left in three days. He was thirty years old, though the weight of his debt made him feel as old as the lead type scattered across his floor. The foundry was a grimy tooth in the jaw of...
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