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The Distant JokeThe chandelier above the ballroom floor was a cage of glass, trembling with the weight of its own reflection. I stood in the center of it, holding a glass of champagne that had gone flat, watching the iridescent sheen creep across the plaster walls of Harrowgate Estate. It looked like oil on water, a shimmering, wet pulse that matched the erratic beating of my own heart. I needed the loan. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterOctober 14, 1893. I have counted the planks in the library floor three times today, and each count yields a different number, which is a fact I find difficult to reconcile with the steady beat of my own pulse. The wood is splintered and gritty underfoot, wearing through the soles of my boots in a way that suggests the floor itself is hungry, and I am merely the meal it is slowly digesting. I am...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe rain in Florence did not wash the city clean; it merely slicked the grime into a black mirror that reflected the gaslights back at the men who walked beneath them, turning every face into a smudge of soot and shadow. Elias Vane stood on the Ponte Vecchio, the silver ring in his left hand trembling so violently that he could not close the clasp, the metal cold as a river stone against his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe dream is always the same, and it is always wrong. You wake with the taste of iron in your mouth, the phantom weight of a crown that isn’t there, and the distinct, wet sensation of black sap drying on your palms. It is the third night in a row. You are Elias Thorne, Captain of the Imperial Guard, and you are thirty-four years old, though the mirrors in the barracks have begun to show a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe feast in the Great Hall was a cacophony of clinking silver and strained laughter, a spectacle of opulence that felt hollow against the cold dread settling in Elias Thorne’s stomach. He stood at the periphery, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, watching the King raise a goblet of wine while the High Justiciar, a man named Vane, whispered in his ear. Thorne wanted only to leave, to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe hall of the Iron Keep smelled of roasted boar, spilled wine, and the damp, metallic scent of thirty men who had not bathed in a week. Captain Elias Thorne stood near the long oak table, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, watching the scribes seal the parchment that would strip the valley of its grain stores. He was thirty years old, and he had served the Crown for twelve, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerElias. The name hung in the air of the bank, heavy as a sack of wet grain, spoken by Mr. Thorne with a smile that did not reach the cold, pale architecture of his eyes. I stood there, the ink on my fingers still wet, the contract for the glasshouse lying between us on the mahogany desk, a document that felt less like paper and more like a shackle forged in iron. I wanted the glasshouse. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe fire in the stone hearth crackled, popping seeds of ember into the dark, while the smell of roasted pork and stale beer hung heavy in the air of the barn. Elias stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the circle of men around the long table. They were laughing, a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate in his chest, a sound of belonging that excluded him. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridOctober 14. I have counted the links. There are one hundred and twelve. I have counted them three times because my hands are not steady, and the metal ticks against my knuckles like a small, cold insect. The letter from the firm arrived on Tuesday. It was three sentences long. It said my services were no longer required. It said my precision had become a liability. It said the severance would...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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