The Pale Path
Act I Catriona Nisbet stood at the edge of the moor, her hands heavy with the weight of the bone comb, forty-two of the Ferry Slip missing its teeth. The wind was dry, cracking the clay of the watchtower foundation beneath her boots, and the mist moved against the grain of the day. She wanted the arrest made before Sunday, when the border closed, but the Pale Man did not stay still. He shifted...
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