The Pale Exile
Chapter One The snow in the Sverdlovsk district was not white but the grey of wet ash, melting into the coal cellars of the railway settlement with a sound like slow, wet chewing, and Nikolai Smirnov stood at the window of the canning factory, watching the slush collect in the gutters where the new tram line had been dug, the rent for his workshop above rising with every inch of track laid...
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