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The Distant GardenThe air in the room tasted of stale dust and old paper, a dry, suffocating haze that clung to the back of my throat and settled in the creases of my skin. I sat at the edge of the mahogany desk, my hands folded tightly in my lap, the knuckles white with a tension that had become less a physical state and more a fundamental condition of my being, a permanent rigidity that I had long ago mistaken...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe bell tower of St. Jude’s stood like a broken tooth against the grey sky, its stone face pitted by centuries of wind and rain. Inside the churchyard, where the yew trees grew thick and dark, the air tasted of wet earth and decay. Silas Vane sat in the shadow of the nave, his back pressed against the cold masonry. He was a man of the old order, a wandering inquisitor of the faith, though the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe conversation had been taking place for three days, or perhaps three months, or perhaps it was merely the length of a single, unbroken breath that Margot had been holding in her chest since the morning the frost cracked the panes of the greenhouse, and it was only when the neighbor, Mr. Halloway, stood on the porch with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his heavy wool coat, that the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe train slowed. It shuddered against the track. I looked out the window. The landscape blurred. Grey fields. Dead trees. The sky was low. It pressed down on the land. I held the box. It was small. It was wooden. It was warm. I had carried it for three days. My hand ached. I did not open it. I knew what was inside. Or I thought I did. I was a scholar. I studied things. I categorized them. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe air in the Hall of Whispers did not smell of dust, as one might expect of a place so ancient and buried beneath the roots of the world, but of ozone and wet copper, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of the tongue and made the teeth ache with a phantom sweetness. Elara stood before the Great Mirror, her hands trembling not from the cold, which was a dry, biting chill that seeped...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe coat was the only thing of value I had left when I left the house on the hill, a heavy thing of charcoal wool that had belonged to my father, and then to my brother, and finally to me, though it had never truly fit any of us, hanging like a shroud that refused to settle on the shoulders of the living. It was a garment of transformation, or so I had believed in the fever of my departure, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the wool of Edward Ashworth’s coat and the glass of the library windows. He stood at the head of the long table, his fingers tracing the spine of a volume on maritime law, though his eyes were fixed on the clock. It was a heavy, brass beast, ticking with a patience that felt almost malicious. Edward...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe rain on the pavement in the capital city did not fall so much as it hung, a fine, gray mist that clung to the wool of Inspector Elias Thorne’s greatcoat. He walked through the precinct, the wet stone slick under his boots, the smell of wet dust and old iron heavy in the air. He was not looking for a suspect. He was looking for a coat. Not any coat, but one specific garment, worn and frayed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe lights are blinding. You stand in the center of the atrium. The air smells of ozone and expensive perfume. It smells of rot. Look at the floor. The marble is cold. It is smooth. It is cracked. You hold the tablet. It is warm in your hands. It is heavy. It is a mirror. Marcus is there. He is smiling. He wears a suit of black wool. He looks like a shadow cut from the night. "Drink," he says....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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