• The Faded Bouquet
    The rain did not fall so much as it invaded, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of Blackwood Hollow into slick, treacherous mirrors reflecting the jagged, lightning-scarred sky above, and within the damp, stone-walled sanctuary of the apothecary’s tower room, Elias Thorne stood with his back rigid against the cold hearth, his fingers trembling not from the chill that seeped...
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  • The Golden Song
    The iron mirror lay on the table. It was whole. It was bright. It reflected the stone walls of the dungeon, the single barred window, and the face of Elias Thorne. Elias did not blink. He did not breathe. He waited. He had worn the mirror for ten years. It was not a piece of jewelry in the way a lady wears a necklace. It was a slab of polished obsidian, framed in cold silver, heavy as a brick....
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  • The Golden Visit
    The sparrow sat on my desk. It did not sing. It did not fly. It simply existed. A small, brown smudge of life against the pale oak. I looked at it. It looked at me. We were in the room. The room was small. The walls were stone. Cold stone. I was the Clerk. I worked for the Magistrate. The Magistrate was a large man. He had large hands. He liked order. I liked the bird. The bird was a gift. I...
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  • The Wistful Skyline
    The bell did not ring; it shattered. It was a sound like a bone snapping inside a ribcage, a sharp, metallic shriek that cut through the humid, stagnant air of the cellar and stopped every heart in the room for a beat, then two. Eleanor Fairchild looked up from her work, her hands still stained with the dark, viscous ink of the chisel she had been using to carve the final details into the ivory...
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  • The Faded Bouquet
    The iron was cold. It sat on the table, a slab of black metal, dull and heavy. It did not shine. It did not reflect the candlelight. It was a thing of permanence. Thomas Ashworth looked at it. He did not touch it. He knew its weight. He had carried it for three years. Not in his hands. In his chest. Outside, the wind howled through the trees. The forest was dark. The path was muddy. It was a...
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  • The Distant Summer
    Thomas Waverly woke with the taste of rust on his tongue, a metallic tang that coated the back of his throat and settled deep in the lungs. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of his narrow flat in Oakhaven, the plaster yellowed with age and damp, and tried to remember the shape of the dream. It was a dream of hands. Specifically, it was a dream of his own hands, but they were not...
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  • The Wistful Campus
    I dreamt of my hands again, or rather, I dreamt of the absence of them, a phantom sensation where the digits should have been, curling around a hilt that was not there, a void in the flesh that mirrored the void in my soul, a hollowing out that was as precise and surgical as the cuts I had once made in the field, as clean as the silence that follows a gunshot in a library, a silence that is not...
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  • The Wistful Campus
    The ink had begun to bleed, a slow, viscous hemorrhage of violet and black that consumed the parchment of the great ledger, spreading its capillary tendrils through the fibers of the paper with a patience that mirrored the creeping, silent erosion of the mind itself, while Professor Elias Thorne stood before the desk of the Dean, his fingers trembling not from the chill of the stone-walled...
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  • The Pale Circus
    The van smelled of diesel and damp wool. Silas packed the last box. It was heavy. He lifted it. His back screamed. He ignored the pain. He placed it in the trunk. He closed the door. The click was final. A bone snapping. He looked at the building. It stood at the end of the gravel road. The Old Mill. It was a skeleton of brick and rot. The windows were black eyes. They stared. They did not...
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  • The Faded Quadrant
    The rain fell in sheets of gray steel. Elias stood at the window. He watched the water ripple across the pavement. It looked like liquid mercury. It looked like blood. He held the compass in his hand. It was an old thing. Brass casing. Tarnished face. The needle did not point north. It pointed down. Always down. Toward the earth. Toward the bone. Elias was a maker of maps. Not of land. Of...
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