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The Golden SongThe rain against the windowpane of my office at St. Jude’s Institute was a monotonous, grey rhythm that matched the dull ache in my lower back, a physical reminder that I was forty-two and no longer the young prodigy who had first uncovered the notation for the Golden Song. I sat before my desk, the manuscript of my monograph spread out like a surgical incision, the pages dense with footnotes...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisYou wake in the antechamber of the Obsidian Palace, the stone beneath your back cold and unyielding, and for a moment you do not know where the dream ends and the waking begins, only that the air tastes of iron and old blood. You are a sentinel, or perhaps you were, though the uniform you wear is tattered, the fabric worn thin to the texture of skin, and your hands, which you lift to examine,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe coal fire in the smoking parlor had burned low, leaving only a bed of dull, grey embers that smelled of ash and stale tobacco. Elias Vane, twelve years old and trembling with a fever that was not physical, clutched the leather-bound ledger against his chest as if it were a shield. He had stolen it from his father’s study an hour ago, the ink still wet on the final page, the numbers...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe frost came early that year. It settled on the shingles of the white clapboard houses in Harrow Creek like a fine, gray powder. It crept into the cracks of the sidewalk. It bit at the edges of the leaves on the bare oaks. Elias Vane noticed it first in his hands. The skin had grown thin. The veins stood out, blue and knotted. He was not a man who looked at his hands often. He looked at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe taste of copper was not on my tongue but in the marrow of my wrists, a metallic tang that had settled into the skin overnight like a slow-acting poison. I sat on the edge of the bed in the cramped quarters provided by the Blackwood Refinery, the morning light filtering through the soot-streaked glass in pale, indifferent shafts, and I looked at my hands. They were covered in a viscous,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe tin cup was thin. It had been thin for years. I held it in my left hand. The metal was cold. It burned my palm. A different kind of burn. The coffee inside was black. It was weak. It tasted of dust. I drank. I drank it all. The house was quiet. The floorboards creaked under my feet. I moved to the window. The glass was cracked. A web of white lines across the pane. Outside, the snow fell....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe lead cames were cold against my fingers, a chill that bit deeper than the November air seeping through the transept. I paused, my breath hanging in the shaft of light that cut through the dust, and listened to the low hum vibrating in the stained glass. It was a sound like a cello string bowed by a heavy hand, a frequency that matched the erratic rhythm of my own failing heart. I am Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerYou arrive in the city by train, the air tasting of coal smoke and wet wool. It is late autumn, or perhaps early winter. The distinction feels academic. You are there to inspect. To verify. To find the rot in the foundation. Your title is Auditor. Your badge is brass, cold against your chest pocket. You are young, or you try to be. You wear your youth like a coat that is too tight across the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe ink on the quill was black, but the blood that seeped from Elias’s right hand was a deep, bruised violet. He sat in the damp cellar of the Abbey of Saint Cuthbert, the stone walls sweating with the cold of the deep earth, and stared at the Abbot. The man, Brother Thomas, was old, his face a map of wrinkles carved by decades of prayer and silence. He held a ledger, the leather cover cracked,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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