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The Distant ClueThe bread in the communal kitchen of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Unexplained was dense, gray, and tasted of ash, a texture that Margaret Holloway had come to recognize as the physical manifestation of her own dwindling hope. She sat alone at the long, scarred oak table, her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug of tea that had long since gone cold, the steam having vanished into the sterile,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe fog did not roll in so much as it condensed, a thick, grey wool that strangled the streets of Millhaven until the gas lamps looked like dying eyes staring out from the void. It was the year of the Great Strike, the air heavy not just with moisture but with the sulfurous tang of the tanneries and the coal dust that settled in the creases of every cheek, in the folds of every garment. In the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe locket was cold. It sat in my palm, a small, heavy thing. Gold. Once bright. Now tarnished by time and touch. I held it tight. My fingers trembled. The wind outside howled. It scraped against the window. A dry, hungry sound. I was alone. The room was dark. Only the candle burned. Its flame flickered. It cast long shadows. The shadows moved. They danced on the walls. I did not look away. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe glass cup shattered on the oak table. It did not shatter loudly. It simply ceased to be whole. The fragments scattered like teeth. I watched them. My hands did not tremble. I am a detective. I know how to watch. The room was full of people. They were laughing. The air smelled of roasting meat and old wood. The walls were lined with portraits of men who looked like me. They had the same...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe stone church at the end of the lane had been there before my grandfather, and it would likely be there long after my grandchildren’s grandchildren had turned to dust. It was a squat, stubborn building, built of local grey rock that seemed to bleed moisture into the air even in the height of summer. I was a builder of small things, a man who crafted wooden bowls and spoons from fallen apple...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe fire in the great hall of Blackwood Keep burned low, but the heat was a physical weight, pressing against the skin like a damp wool blanket. I sat at the far end of the long oak table, my hands folded beneath my chin, watching the smoke curl into the vaulted ceiling where it mingled with the shadows. The feast had been a spectacle of excess, a desperate attempt by Lord Alistair to drown the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe air in the cellar of the old manor house did not smell of damp earth or rotting wood, but of yeast and warm honey, a thick, cloying sweetness that coated the back of Wren’s throat as he sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor. It was the feast of St. Jude, the patron of lost causes, and the air outside the heavy oak door was screaming with the wind, yet down here, in the belly of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe frost bit the iron gate. It did not bite the man. Elias stood in the drive. He wore his coat. The wool was thin. The cold was thick. He watched the house. The house watched back. It was a Victorian pile. Slate roof. Black stone. The windows were dark. Except one. The attic window. A square of amber light. It pulsed. Like a heart. Like a lung. Elias touched his neck. His hand stopped. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe road to the Abbey of St. Jude was a ribbon of red clay that wound through the mist. Thomas walked it alone. He was twelve years old and his boots were heavy with mud. He carried a bundle on his back. Inside the bundle was a coat. It was a long coat. It was pale blue. It had been his father’s. Thomas was a scribe’s apprentice. He had been sent to the abbey to learn the trade. The abbot,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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