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The Pale ExileThe notice was pinned to the chapel door with a single rusted nail, the paper yellowed and brittle at the edges, the ink smudged where the rain had found its way in before the winter set in. I December 14, 1912. The smell of wet stone and old wax is all that remains of the morning. I spent the hours scraping the grime from the altar stone, my hands raw and red from the cold, the cough sitting...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorNino Rizzo knew the weight of a man’s life before he knew the weight of a coin. Chapter One The foundry floor shook with the rhythm of the hammers, a dull, persistent thud that traveled up through the soles of his boots and settled in his teeth. It was 1912, and the air in the Po valley was heavy with sulfur and wet rice. Nino stood by the furnace, watching the molten metal glow orange, a fire...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe letter lay on the desk of Inspector Elias Thorne, a sheet of heavy, cream-colored stationery that smelled faintly of lavender and old paper, the ink still wet enough to catch the light from the gas lamp as he traced the seal with a thumb that had not felt the warmth of a living hand in six years. It was a formal reprimand from Mayor Halloway, signed in a looping, confident hand, instructing...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisMy hand shook as I ground the last of the ash-root into the mortar, the pestle slipping against the coarse stone, the sound a dry, rasping friction that seemed to scrape the damp from the cellar walls. The root was not the deep violet it had been a month ago, but a pale, sickly grey, and as I worked, a low hum began to vibrate in my molars, a frequency so low I felt it in my chest before I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe notice was printed on heavy, cream-colored stock, the kind that feels substantial enough to buy a bus ticket with, if one were desperate enough to do such a thing. It sat on your desk, a small, rectangular island of bureaucratic finality amidst the sea of scattered index cards and cold coffee cups. You read it twice, the ink black and unblinking. Your permanent tenure, the thing you had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe weight of the brass is not in the hand, but in the teeth, a low, persistent thrum that has lived in your molars since you were seven. You are Elias, twelve years old, and you count the seconds between the ticks of the clock in the St. Jude’s Municipal Library to keep the vibration from splitting your skull. The Quadrant Map sits on the central table, a heavy, tarnished disk of brass etched...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownElias Thorne, the voice came from the back of the shop, thin and sharp as a snapped wire, cutting through the low, constant thrum that had settled into the floorboards. He did not turn. He kept his eyes on the raw stone resting on the velvet pad in the center of the workbench, its surface dull and grey, yet vibrating with a frequency that made the fillings in his teeth ache. The apprentice, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale Dance"Don't shoot him, you fool, you'll ruin the pension." The voice was not mine. It was the voice of the Inspector, but it came from the wire itself, a low, metallic thrum that vibrated against my molars until the taste of iron flooded my mouth. I stood in the fog, the border fence humming beside me like a plucked harp string, and I could feel the heat of the summer dusk pressing down on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Letter14 October 1924 The wisteria in the courtyard has begun to bleed again, a thick, viscous black sap oozing from the fissures in the ancient stone wall, a sign that lies are festering in the upper halls; I have spent the last three hours cataloguing the correspondence of the late Duke, my hands steady despite the tremor that has seized my chest since dawn, for I know that Lord Vane is dying in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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