The temple had been waiting for him longer than he had been alive.
Arthur Pembroke stood at the edge of the Cornish cliff-path, the wind tearing at his coat as if it, too, wanted to pull him into the grey Atlantic. Below him, the sea gnawed at the base of the cliff with patient teeth. And beyond the headland—hidden by a fold in the coastline that no modern map had ever bothered to...
The courtroom had been built pale. Not white—that would have been a lie, white implying cleanliness, implying that something had been washed. This was the pallor of limestone and old paper, the colour of bone left in summer rain. It was the colour of justice when justice forgets itself.
Arthur Pembroke sat in the third row, counting the cracks in the ceiling plaster the way his father had...
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