I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth. The room was dark.
"Thomas?"
A voice. Low. Close.
"Here, Arthur."
I sat up. The sheets were cold. My skin was dry.
"Get dressed," Arthur said. "We have work to do."
I looked at him. He was leaning against the doorframe. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Never mind," he said. "Just move."
I swung my legs off the bed. My...
"You’re bleeding," he said.
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the flat, weary tone of a man who had seen too many small disasters in his life. He held up his hand. The ink was black, thick, and impossible. It ran from his fingertips in a steady stream, pooling in his palm before dripping onto the white floorboards of the cabin.
I stared at it. I didn’t feel pain....
The stone tower stood in the center of the grey valley, not built of mortar and brick, but of compressed silence and old, cold rain. It was a place where the laws of the waking world did not quite hold. Margaret Holloway climbed the spiraling stairs, her boots slipping on the wet, slick surface that was less stone and more frozen mud. She was not a warrior. She was a woman with aching feet and...
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