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The Pale ExileThe rain against the high, frosted windows of the infirmary did not fall so much as it was exhaled, a long, shuddering sigh from a sky that had forgotten how to weep, leaving Eleanor Ashworth sitting in the center of the tiled floor, her back pressed against the cold iron radiator, watching the single, shattered pane of glass in the corner of her eye where the light should have been, but was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe rain did not fall so much as it hung suspended in the heavy, damp air of the valley, a thick, grey curtain that blurred the boundary between the earth and the sky, leaving the village of Oakhaven in a state of perpetual, suffocating twilight where the cobblestones gleamed with a slick, oily sheen that reflected the dim, amber light of the gas lamps, which flickered with an arrhythmic,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe rain had not stopped for three days, a grey curtain that blurred the stone walls of the Abbey into a single, weeping mass of moss and mortar. I stood in the center of the nave, my sword hilt slick with the condensation of the air, while the echo of the previous hour’s violence still hung in the rafters. It was a cold silence, the kind that settles after a scream has been swallowed by stone....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain that blotted out the gaslight and turned the cobblestones of Whitechapel into a slick, black mirror reflecting the hollow eyes of the men who walked upon them. It was the year of the iron rails and the steam, a time when the city breathed smoke and whispered secrets in the tongues of the dead, and in this particular night,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant Machine14 October 1924 The damp in Prague has a taste, Elias Thorne writes to no one in particular, scratching the words onto the back of a receipt for a bottle of iodine. It tastes of copper and old pennies, a metallic tang that coats the tongue and refuses to be washed away by water or bread. I am thirty-two years old, and I am dying, or so the apothecary tells me, though he says it with the gentle,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe bread was going bad. I knew it by the smell before I even cracked the crust, that sour, yeasty breath that clung to the back of my throat like a lie I couldn’t swallow. It sat on the counter, wrapped in a brown paper bag that had gone soft and damp, a brown lump against the white tile of the kitchen wall. My name is Clara, and I live in a house that is slowly eating me alive, one crumb at a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey sheet that turned the cobblestones of Harrowgate into slick, dark mirrors. I sat in the archive, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and the metallic tang of decaying paper, my fingers wrapped around the velvet box that held Elara’s cameo. She had died in the spring, leaving behind a house full of dust and a legacy that was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a heavy, grey curtain that blotted out the sun and turned the world into a wet, shivering thing. Thomas Ashworth walked through it, his boots sinking into the mud of the road that wound through the highlands, each step a small, deliberate act of endurance. He was not a man who looked at the sky to find answers, nor did he look to the earth for comfort....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe truck rattles over the potholes of Oakhaven, a rhythmic shaking that vibrates through your spine and into the hollow space where your recent memories used to live. You are fifty-two, though the mirror in the rearview makes you look older, and you are here for one reason: to find the deed to the family mill. Your sister Martha is dead, and the estate is a tangle of debts and missing papers....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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