• ACT I
    Dr. Julian Frost found his own biography in a Taiping archival document, written in 1854—twenty years before he was born. The discovery happened on a Tuesday, in the imperial archives of Tianjing, where Julian had spent the last three months cataloging rebel propaganda and religious texts for his forthcoming Oxford publication. He was thirty-two, a man of meticulous habits and rational...
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  • The Iron Wheel of London
    It arrived at half-past three on a Tuesday in November, wrapped in oilcloth and sealed with wax the colour of dried blood. Arthur Pendleton found it on his workbench at the back of his father's curiosity shop on Fleet Street, where it had been left by a messenger who would not say his name, would not take payment, and vanished into the fog before Arthur could ask him which street he came from....
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  • THE MIRROR IN THE BASEMENT
    ACT I: THE WINDOWLESS ROOM Lord Alistair Finch-Worthingham inherited Blackwood Park on a Tuesday in November, which seemed appropriate: Tuesdays were the kind of days on which serious things happened—inheritances, deaths, the slow realization that one's life has been a performance for an audience that stopped watching years ago. The house was exactly as one might expect a country house named...
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  • ACT I
    The Beauregard plantation looked like a dying animal: magnificent once, now skeletal, its ribs of white columns protruding through peeling paint like bone through rotting flesh. Elias Thorne stood at the gate and felt something he hadn't felt since Boston, something that was almost sympathy. He had come south as a Union intelligence officer, armed with maps and coded messages and a conviction...
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  • The Blood at Bayou Rouge
    The heat in Bayou Rouge didn't fall from the sky; it rose from the ground, from the mud and the moss and the things buried too shallow in soil that had been fertile once and hadn't earned the right to be fertile again. Julian Whitfield arrived in September, which was the wrong month to arrive. September in south Louisiana means two things: the last desperate gasp of summer, and the first hint...
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  • The Sower of New Worlds
    I met the man who would take me beyond the edge of everything in a bar in Greenwich Village, and he was drinking champagne out of a beer mug, which was the kind of absurd thing that happened all the time in 1923 and no one thought anything of. His name was Silas Thorne, and he wore a suit the colour of weak tea and spoke with the soft, careful accent of a man who had learned that the wrong word...
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  • The Double Life of Thomas Vance
    Thomas Vance opened the bookshop at nine in the morning and he closed it at six in the evening and he did exactly the same thing every day for three years. He straightened the books. He wiped the counter. He drank tea from a cup that said World's Best Bookseller in letters that were chipped and fading. He watched the people walk past the window and he thought about nothing. This was exactly...
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  • The Jazz of Origins
    The music hit Nathaniel Calloway in the chest like a physical thing—warm, relentless, alive. He stood at the back of the club with a glass of something he didn't remember ordering and watched the singer close her eyes and let the room dissolve around her. Her name was Clara Beaumont, and she sang like someone who had lived through the thing she was singing about and come out the other side not...
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  • The Bloodroot Codex
    The first of the great natural philosophers died in November, and only later did anyone connect his name to the others. Dr. Edmund Ashworth stood in the rain outside the gates of Trinity College, watching the pallbearers carry the coffin of Professor Whitmore into the chapel. It had been three months since the second death, two since the first. All three had been Fellows of the Royal Society....
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  • Dust and Stars
    The telescope was built from scrap. Dale Whitmore had found the primary mirror in a dumpster behind an optical shop in Charleston, West Virginia—cracked along one edge but still reflective, still useful. The mount was made from pipe fittings he had scavenged from the scrap yard. The tripod was three-by-four lumber and bicycle wheel bearings. It was ugly. It was imperfect. It was the most...
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