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The Wistful LetterSt James's Square at two in the morning was a place between one thing and another — between the last train and the first, between the last drink and the first sober morning, between the life you had built and the life that had already begun to slip through your fingers without your noticing. Thomas Ashworth-Cross stood on the edge of the square and watched the streetlights flicker in the damp...0 Comments 0 Shares 47 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiEdward Ashworth-Cross had been a clockmaker's apprentice for seventeen years when he learned that time could lie. The shop stood on Jermine Street, its window a narrow rectangle of brass and glass that caught the London afternoon like a held breath. Edward was forty-two, tall and narrow as a pendulum, with fingers that could set a balance wheel fine enough to hear a heartbeat through metal....0 Comments 0 Shares 74 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesYou wake not to the sound of the siren, which is a steady, mechanical drone that has become the heartbeat of the valley, but to the taste of copper and ash on your tongue. It is a flavor you have known for thirty years, the taste of the rations, the grey, dense bricks of nutrient paste that are your only sustenance, your only bond to the living world. You sit up in the narrow bunk, the metal...0 Comments 0 Shares 32 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe dream began, as it always did, with the smell of wet limestone and ozone, a scent that belonged to no season but the one where the sky hung low and heavy, pressing its bruised purple forehead against the treetops. Elara woke not in her narrow bed in the staff quarters, but standing in the center of the Grand Atrium, her feet bare on the cold, polished marble. The Atrium was the heart of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 22 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowElias woke with the taste of iron in his mouth. The dream was gone. Only the weight remained. He sat up. The room was dark. Rain tapped against the glass. Soft. Persistent. He looked down. His hands were shaking. On the bed lay the coat. It was his father’s. Wool. Heavy. Brown. Worn thin at the elbows. The buttons were brass. Tarnished. Elias touched the fabric. It was cold. He had not worn it...0 Comments 0 Shares 44 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe rain did not wash the city clean. It only made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the Old Quarter into mirrors of mud and decay. Elias Thorne stood under the eave of the Bishop’s House, his coat heavy with water, his breath a ghost that vanished before it could form a word. He was a man of forty, though the lines around his eyes spoke of a decade more. He was an investigator....0 Comments 0 Shares 34 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe bell rang. It was a high, thin sound. Like a nail on glass. I woke up in the mud. The mud was cold. It was thick. It smelled of iron and old rain. I was not in my shop. I was in the dark. The sky above was not sky. It was a ceiling of swirling grey mist. It moved like water. It moved like breath. I looked at my hands. They were stained. Not with ink. Not with dye. They were stained with...0 Comments 0 Shares 32 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe rain fell upon the ramparts of Oakhaven like a ceaseless, gray judgment, washing the mud from the stones and into the deep, black ditches below. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the center of the watchtower, his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword, though the blade itself had not been drawn in three days. It was a strange, cold sort of silence that had settled over the garrison, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 22 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe ink did not dry so much as it calcified upon the parchment, a brittle, dark crust that spoke of a permanence which the men in the high tower seemed to find both reassuring and terrifying, for it was a permanence that could not be scrubbed away by the damp brooms of the city’s memory, nor washed out by the endless, weeping rain that fell upon the slate roofs of the lower wards. Captain Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 22 Views 0 Reviews
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