The letter was found in the mud of the border road, folded into a square no larger than a man’s palm. It smelled of wet iron and old rain.
It was a letter from the past. Or rather, it was a letter that had no past, only a future that had already happened. The paper was rough, made of bark pulp, the ink a dried blood-red. It bore the seal of the Crown, a jagged circle of gold leaf that had...
The rain did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended fog that smelled of wet coal and old iron. It was the kind of weather that made the lungs ache, a heaviness that pressed against the glass of the shop window. Elias stood behind the counter. He held a broom. The broom was his anchor. The wood was smooth, worn by years of his own hands. He swept the floor. The floor was stone. It was cold. He...
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