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The Distant GhostThe letter lay on the kitchen table, its seal broken, the paper yellowed by time and the damp that crept in through the window frame. I read it three times, the ink blurring slightly where my thumb had pressed too hard. It was from Professor Halloway, dated three days prior, inviting me to his estate in the north for a final review of my lectures before the Chair of History was awarded. I was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythChapter One Could a piece of metal truly hold the weight of a soul, or was it merely a trick of the light, a reflection that lied to keep the viewer comfortable? Yelena Karamyan, thirty-two years old and an archivist with a lapsed professional license, stood in the dust-choked loft of the Karamyan estate, the tin roof above her groaning under the weight of a snow that had closed the road since...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe knife bit into the cork of the wine bottle, the soft, fibrous sound a small mercy in the silence of the refectory. I am Elias, an inquisitor of the Crown, and I have come to the Abbey of St. Jude to purge the heretical blight that has taken root in these stone walls. My hand, steady as iron, twists the corkscrew, and as I do, a faint, red line ignites across the back of my wrist. It burns,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe rejection letter smelled of stale coffee and the particular, dry dust of the university’s central processing room, a scent that clung to the paper’s edges like a warning. I held it in my hands, the thick, cream-colored stock of the Department of Historical Archives, and read the words for the third time: *The manuscript displays signs of confabulation inconsistent with verifiable historical...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantChapter One The city of Arles moved with the heavy, grinding momentum of a millstone, its canals choked with the silt of industry and the mud of autumn. The air tasted of wet stone and rotting lavender, a scent that clung to the wool of coats and the skin of men who worked too hard to wash. In the narrow office of the police precinct, Sergeant Melanie Joubert stood before the desk of Chief...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded Paradox"Elias. Elias, look at him. He’s slipping." The voice was Margaret’s, sharp as a knife slipped under a nail, and it cut through the hum of the dining room. You were sitting at the head of the table, the one Arthur preferred, the one with the cracked veneer that he had sanded down himself three winters ago, leaving a faint, permanent scar in the wood where his elbow rested. The room smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostAct I Rory Cameron sat in the dark of the bunker, the rusted iron compass heavy in his palm, its needle spinning without purpose in the stagnant air. He was thirty-four years old, a lifeboat coxswain by trade and a soldier by misfortune, and he wanted nothing more than to survive the night so he could report the enemy’s retreat to command. The silence was absolute, a physical weight that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe first thing Elias Thorne did each morning was count the bolts. There were forty-two of them, rusted into the frame of the Whispering Cell’s iron door, and he knew by heart which ones groaned when the heating kicked on and which ones had gone silent from sheer fatigue. He was thirty-two years old, a warden of the subterranean processing facility in the damp hills outside Ashworth, and he had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe ferry queue stretches out into the grey mist, a serpentine line of damp wool and rusted iron, where the shutter of the boat house bangs against its frame with a rhythmic, percussive thud that has beaten through my skull for three days straight. I am Rena Stefanou, and I am standing in the mud at ninety-six of Widow’s Landing, watching the water turn the color of old bruises, while the tax...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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