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The Distant GardenThe brass astrolabe was cold. It sat in the center of my desk, a dead star of metal and glass. I had carried it for three days. It was heavy. Not just in weight. In meaning. My hands trembled. I wrapped them in wool. The wool was wet. The rain had not stopped. It never stopped in this part of the world. Or so it seemed. I am a clerk. I count numbers. I balance ledgers. I am good at it. Or I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe rain lashed against the high, narrow windows of the Victorian manor house, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of the stone walls, while inside, the air hung thick and stagnant with the scent of damp wool, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that had settled into the household like a second skin. Captain Elias Thorne stood in the center of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring for the living, but for the silence that had settled over the village of Oakhaven like a shroud of gray wool. I stood at the edge of the cobblestone square, my hands trembling not from the biting November wind, but from the weight of the object wrapped in oilcloth in my satchel. It was a cloak, or at least it had been, woven from a fiber so fine...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe fog does not lift. It settles. You feel it in your lungs, a cold, wet weight that tastes of iron and old salt. You are walking. You have been walking for a long time, though the sun never moves. It hangs low, a bruised yellow disc, trapped in the sky like a coin in a slot. You are far from the harbor where you landed, far from the grey brick houses and the smell of coal smoke. This is the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeMara left the house at dawn. The air was thin and sharp. She carried a small bag. It held clothes and a photo of her son. The photo was old. He was five. He held a paper boat. She looked at it once. Then she put it away. The road stretched out. It was white with frost. The trees stood like silent sentinels. They had no leaves. They had nothing to hide behind. Mara walked fast. Her breath made...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe bell tolled. It was the hour of the third meal. Cato stood in the center of the Great Hall. He was a man of few words. His hands were empty. They were clean. This was the problem. Clean hands meant no work. Clean hands meant no sin. And a monk with no sin was a ghost waiting to happen. The bread was on the table. It was round. It was white. It smelled of yeast and warmth. It looked like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe rain hit the slate roof like a drumroll. It was a cold, industrial percussion. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood by the window. He watched the water bead and run. The glass was cold against his forehead. He was a man of structure. Of order. He had served twenty years in the Home Guard. His hands were rough. They were scarred. They were steady. His daughter, Clara, sat at the table. She was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe stone did not fall, it dissolved, or so it seemed, as the mortar between the flagstones of the courtyard crumbled into a fine, grey dust that coated our tongues with the taste of ancient earth and iron, while the sky above the keep turned the color of a bruise, swollen and purple, and I stood there, my hands slick with the sweat of a man who has run too far and too fast, looking at the wall...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe rain in the city of Oakhaven does not fall; it hovers, a thick, grey curtain that blurs the line between the sky and the cobblestones. You are standing in the square, your boots caked in mud, your chest heaving as if you have just run a marathon through the fog. The air tastes of iron and old paper, the scent of the Archives that you have just fled. Your hand trembles, not from the cold,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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