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The Wistful WitnessThe auction house manager, a man with a slicked-back hair and a tie the color of dried blood, looked at my mother and then at me, his eyes sliding over the top of her head as if she were a piece of furniture that had lost its sheen. "We can’t delay the sale, Mr. Thorne. The estate is in probate, and the dementia is accelerating. The heirlooms need to go to market." I stood in the center of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe parchment was heavy, weighted down by a rusted iron nail driven into the oak table, and Elias read the list of debts owed to the church for the destruction of three folios during the skirmish at the river ford. The ink was brown and dried, but the words pressed against his eyes with the physical force of a hammer blow, detailing the cost of his own survival in terms of copper pennies and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe inventory ledger lay open on the oak desk, its pages swollen with the dampness that had settled into the bones of the monastery since the autumn rains began. I stared at the entry for the River Tincture, a small clay pot sealed with wax the color of dried blood, and I felt the cold seep through the soles of my boots, a chill that started in the marrow and worked its way up to the throat. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe quill felt heavier than it should have, a sliver of feather that seemed to weigh as much as a lead weight in your hand, the nib dragging through the vellum with a friction that made your knuckles ache. You were Brother Thomas, forty years old, your shoulders hunched permanently from decades of bending over desks, and the cellar of the Abbey of St. Jude smelled of damp stone and the sharp,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe dream was always the same. A brass astrolabe, cracked down the middle, lying in the mud. The sky above it was not blue but a bruised, swollen purple, bleeding stars that fell like ash. Elias woke with the taste of copper in his mouth, his heart hammering against the thin wool of his shift. He was forty years old, his hair thinning, his eyes permanently squinted from years of peering through...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe rain lashed against the single pane of glass, blurring the view of the Municipal Archive into a watercolor of grey stone and black iron. Elias Vane sat in the cramped office on the fourth floor, his fingers resting on a cold cup of coffee, staring at the facade. The building was dying. He could see it in the way the mortar crumbled, in the sag of the upper eaves, in the dark, wet patches...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusNovember 14th. The wind off the harbor is cutting through the limestone spires of St. Jude’s Hall, and for the third time this week, the subsonic hum has rattled the fillings in my teeth until I thought they would pop out. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two, and I have spent the last six hours in the reclamation bureau’s office, staring at the stress analysis reports that confirm what my gut has...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe spoon was silver, tarnished to the color of a bruised plum. Elias Thorne turned it over in his fingers, the metal cold against his skin, a small anchor in the drifting fog of the Federal Bureau of Sanitation. He was forty-two, though the lines around his eyes suggested a man who had seen the heat death of the universe. He wanted to leave. He wanted the quiet of a farmhouse, the silence of a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe horse’s hooves struck the cobblestones of Oakhaven with a rhythm that felt like a funeral march. Elias Thorne sat rigid in the saddle, his hand resting on the hilt of his revolver, though he knew he would not fire. The town lay beneath a sky the color of bruised slate, the smoke from the textile mills rising in thick, grey columns that choked the morning light. He had ridden for six hours...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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