A Tale of Profanation, Smoke, and Ritual Sacrifice.
The Weeping Hall
The Captain had been dead for three days, and the larder was freezing. This was where we hid—Isola and I—wedged between the hanging carcasses of frost-elk, the barrels of salted fish, and the man lying on the butcher’s bench. It was freezing in here, but the cold didn’t matter to us.
Isola was facing away from me. She was unbuckling the leather dress she wore to protect the other servants from her touch. In the silence of the Second Terrace, the leather creaked—a dry, complaining sound that made my teeth ache.
