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The Faded RiverThe train did not stop at the station of St. Jude’s, for St. Jude’s was not a place on the map but a state of being that Thomas Ashworth had carried in his chest for three days, a heavy, cold stone that sat beneath his ribs and pulsed with a rhythm distinct from his own heartbeat, a rhythm that matched the clacking of the wheels on the iron rails as they cut through the grey, fog-choked...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe blood on her hands was not red. It was the color of rust, of dried earth, of old coins left in a pocket for too long. Margaret wiped it on her apron. The cloth drank it up. She did not look away. The boy lay in the mud of the alley behind the bakery. He was small. He was still. His eyes were open. They were white. They were the color of milk. Margaret held his hand. It was cold. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe Great Hall of the Abbey of St. Jude’s, a structure of such immense and crushing gravity that it seemed less a building than a geological formation of stone and silence, was currently illuminated by a thousand tallow candles whose collective flame did not so much light the space as it defined the negative space of the shadows that swallowed the corners and the recesses of the vaulted...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe hat sat on the desk. It was a wide-brimmed thing, woven of straw so fine it looked like spun light. It had belonged to Arthur. Arthur was the Town Clerk. Arthur was also the man who knew everything and told nothing. Mara stared at it. The office smelled of dust and dried lavender. Outside, the rain tapped against the window glass, a steady, rhythmic code. She touched the brim. The straw was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe frost has not yet melted from the windowpanes of the ancestral estate, a crystalline lattice that distorts the gray dawn into a shattered mosaic of light, and you stand in the center of the grand hall, your fingers tracing the grain of the mahogany floorboards, feeling the cold seep through the soles of your boots as if the earth itself were exhaling its last, reluctant breath. You are the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe hall is full. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meat and old wood. You stand in the center of the room. Your hands are still. Your face is a mask. You are the court mage. You are the judge. You are the law. They watch you. The nobles in their fine silks. The guards with their heavy swords. Your mother sits at the high table. She does not look at you. She eats her soup. She chews...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe brass key is cold in your hand, colder than the iron railing of the fire escape you just climbed down from. It is a heavy, ornate thing, its teeth worn smooth by decades of use, and you hold it up to the gaslight flickering in the window of the fourth-floor apartment. The metal has a dull, sickly sheen, like the surface of an old coin that has been handled too much. You are not sure why you...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe bread was stale. I knew it was stale. I knew it because I held it. I held the crust in my left hand. My fingers were white. My nails were short. I had cut them that morning. I cut them with a knife. A dull knife. A kitchen knife. It had seen better days. It had seen my mother’s hands. It had seen my father’s hands. It had seen the blood of the goat. It had seen the blood of the rat. It had...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe stone walls of the Priory of Saint Jude wept with a perpetual, cold dampness that seeped into the marrow of anyone who dared to linger within their ancient embrace, a moisture that smelled of wet limestone and the slow, rotting decay of centuries-old oak. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the center of the refectory, a vast and echoing chamber where the air hung heavy with the scent of mildew and...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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