• The Wistful Quad
    The quad at St. Crispin's Academy had always been the kind of place that remembered everything its students tried to forget. Three centuries of cobblestones, ivy-choked Gothic arches, and gaslamp-style lanterns that never quite pushed back the Yorkshire fog. Julian Thorne had walked it every morning for six years—first as a scholarship boy with scuffed shoes and a head full of dangerous ideas,...
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  • The Wistful Ashes
    The parlor smelled of lavender and cold tea. That was the first thing you noticed when you crossed Mrs. Calloway's threshold — not the ectoplasm, not the spectral vibrations, not the inexplicable drop in temperature that always preceded her sessions. It was the lavender. It clung to the wallpaper in faded rosettes, it was ground into the hearth-rug, it was the scent she burned in a brass...
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  • The Wistful Skyline
    The Wistful Skyline By Margaret Whitfield The tide withdrew from Whitby like a promise broken, leaving the harbour basin bare and gawping, a mouth without teeth. Abigail Marsh walked the stones in her bare feet, the shells crunching beneath her arches like old bones. She had been coming here since she was a child—no, since before she could remember—and the harbour had always been this...
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