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The Golden ScarAct I Do you remember the sound the spire made before it broke? I do not. I remember the dry cold, the kind that preserves things in amber, and the way it settled into the joints of my hands. I was thirty-four years old, a Border Warden in Aethel, and I wanted only to finish my final patrol so the pension would clear. The city was a sterile grid of stone and glass, built on the bones of the old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe invoice lay on the steel table, the paper brittle and grey, smelling faintly of sulfur and old dust. Elias Thorne did not sign it. He looked at the line item: *Consultation for Structural Integrity, Greenhouse Sector 4*, and then at the date, which was three weeks in the future. He was a botanist, or had been, before the Ministry of Agriculture had stripped his license for what they...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumChapter One The slate hills of Grand-Goâve split the flat horizon, a jagged spine of rock that held the morning light like a bruise, and the air in the municipal clinic smelled of wet plaster and fear. Bernadette LaFleur, forty-five and a former military medic, gripped the edge of the iron bed as the gas leak hissed from the basement pipes, a sound like a dying snake. Her heart, which had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThorne. The name was spoken by the Chief Constable’s aide, a young man with ink-stained fingers, who pushed through the crowd of uniformed officers and civilians gathered in the grand hall of the County Hall. The air in the room was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and floor wax, a heavy, cloying mixture that seemed to coat the back of Elias Thorne’s throat. He stood by the heavy oak...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe name Vernon Muncy was stamped in fading ink on the ration chit for water hours, a document that smelled of damp wool and ozone, sitting on my desk at one hundred and nine of NineElm Crossing. I was thirty-four, an actuary for a desalination firm that was slowly being eaten by the Fens, and I wanted to sign the divorce papers by Friday to keep the apartment before the oxygen subscription...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe wharf at Port Arthur groaned under the weight of the morning, a long, wooden spine of industry where the smell of brine and rotting kelp hung thick enough to taste. The wind, sharp and physical, tore at the shallow corrugated roofs of the sheds, sending loose shingles skittering across the mud like dead fish. Opal Vance stood by the ledger table, her hand trembling so violently that the ink...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe rotunda of Blackwood Asylum smelled of wet plaster and old fear, a scent that had seeped into the very stones over the last decade of neglect. I stood alone in the center of the circular hall, the silence pressing against my eardrums like deep water, my hand resting on the hilt of my service revolver not out of necessity, but out of habit. I was there to secure the site for demolition, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe brass plate weighs four hundred and twelve grams. I know because I weighed it on the kitchen scale three times this morning, the digital display flickering in the dim light before the battery died. It is a small, rectangular thing, tarnished green at the edges, and the letters cast in relief are chipped where the metal has fractured. *Sgt. J. Thorne*. The 'J' is missing entirely, worn away...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorAct I Soo-ah Song’s brush hovered over the wet ink, the tip trembling not from age but from the weight of the Larkspurn copper thimble she wore on her left index finger, a relic from a life before the pawn shop, before the divorce papers turned her name into a line item in arrears. Outside the window of the tailor’s shop of mirrors, where the glass panels reflected the grey October light that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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