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The Pale TowerThe rain had not stopped for three days, a steady, gray drumming against the leaded glass of the workshop windows that seemed to vibrate with the weight of the water outside. I sat at my bench, the wood worn smooth by forty years of hands, my own knuckles swollen and red in the cold air. The shop smelled of oil, wet wool, and the metallic tang of the iron filings that covered the floor in a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CompassYou bleed. The blood is red against the grey wool of your tunic. It soaks into the fabric, a dark tide that refuses to recede. Your brother, Thomas, stands three feet away. He does not move. He holds the dagger in his right hand. The blade is wet. It glistens in the dim light of the cellar. Thomas. Your name is Arthur. You are the elder. You are the one who was supposed to protect him. The air...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe harvest moon hung low and swollen over the marshlands, a pale eye staring down at the gathering of souls in the great barn of the Holloway estate. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, burning tallow, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Margaret stood near the heavy oak doors, her hands wrapped around a clay mug that had gone cold in her grip. She was the daughter of the manor,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe rain had been falling for three days, a thin, persistent sheet of gray water that turned the cobblestones of the lower city into slick, black mirrors reflecting the gaslights and the low, heavy clouds that pressed down against the high stone walls of the Citadel. It was not a natural rain, or if it was, it had been imbued with something else, something that made the air taste of copper and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe rain lashed against the slate roof of the manor, a relentless drumming that sought to drown out the silence within. Inspector Arthur Vane stood by the window, his reflection ghostly in the dark glass. He wore his uniform with a stiffness that suggested the fabric was armor, not cloth. The room smelled of wet wool and old paper. He was leaving. This was the final hour before he handed in his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the world outside the window into a blurred watercolor. Inside the kitchen of the large, dim house on Blackwood Lane, the air smelled of damp wool and the faint, sweet rot of the apples left too long in the cellar. Thomas sat at the table, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe mud was thick enough to swallow a boot, a black and greasy paste that smelled of turned earth and old blood, and Thomas Bradshaw knew with a certainty that lived in his marrow rather than his mind that he would not survive the next ten seconds. He stood in the center of the courtyard of the Blackwood Penitentiary, a stone fortress that had stood on the riverbank for three hundred years, its...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe rain does not fall so much as it presses, a wet, heavy hand against the glass of the bus window, blurring the city into a smear of grey and amber lights that you watch with the detached, aching focus of a woman who has forgotten how to blink. You are sitting in the back corner, where the air smells of stale coffee and damp wool, and your hands are folded in your lap, the knuckles white, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalI am the last one left. The door was locked. From the inside. I checked it. Twice. Three times. It would not open. The wood was warm. Not from the sun. There was no sun here. Only the hum. A low, steady vibration. It lived in the walls. It lived in the floor. It lived in my teeth. I stood in the center of the room. The room was small. Square. White. There were no windows. There were no lamps....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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