• The Wistful Grid
    Chapter One 12th of the Dry Season, 1918. The rent book lay open on the table, the ink of the last entry, fifty-eight of the Amber Stair, still wet and glistening like a bruise, and Yaa Danso looked at the sum with the cold, detached precision of an accountant balancing a ledger of her own flesh. She did not look up when the door creaked, for the smell of the room had already told her...
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  • The Wistful Dinner
    Karl Becker’s hand, slick with the grease of the lock mechanism, turned the key with a force that snapped the tumblers. The sound was a wet crack in the silence of the scriptorium, sharper than the rain hammering against the slate roof of the Abbey of St. Jude. He did not pause to wipe his palms on his tunic, nor did he look at the ledger of debts stacked on the desk, the ink still wet from his...
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  • The Golden Circuit
    I The harbor at low tide was a grid of black mud and rotting kelp, where the smell of brine mixed with the sharper, metallic tang of iron filings from the shipyards. Men hauled nets up the slipway, their boots squelching in the silt, while the gulls screamed a high, thin note that cut through the damp air. Gunnar Moen stood at the edge of the quay, his hands clasped behind his back, watching...
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  • The Pale Mist
    Act I Lars Kvist stood at the window of the gas works, watching the fog press against the glass like a living thing, his breath fogging the pane in short, sharp bursts. He was the displaced persons registrar, a man whose life had been reduced to a ledger of missing bodies and a bread line token stamped with the number twenty-three of Widow's Landing, a token he kept in his pocket like a...
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  • The Pale Banner
    Act I Oscar Mire’s fingers were stained black with ink, the nib of the quill scratching against the parchment as he tried to form the word forgive. The cell was damp, the stone walls sweating in the Caribbean heat, and the air smelled of mildew and the rotting cane that grew in the rows outside the barred window. He was thirty-four, a man who had sold his brother’s inheritance to escape the...
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  • The Golden Mirror
    Act I In the service corridors of the Norman estate, the air tasted of wet wool and old iron, a permanent dampness that settled into the bones of anyone who worked there. Marcel Gauthier, twelve years old and small for his age, kept his head down as he moved through the rain-slicked courtyard, his fingers numb inside his threadbare gloves. He was a junior scribe, a title that meant little more...
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  • The Distant Crown
    Thomas. The word hung in the air of the attic, sharp and sudden, as if my brother had called out from the bottom of a well. I froze, my fingers still buried in the dust of the old cedar chest, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. It was only the wind, I told myself, rattling the loose shingles, but the sound of it was so distinct, so impossibly clear, that I could not shake...
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  • The Wistful Mirror
    The convoy moves slow through the red dust, a long line of rusted tugs and cargo haulers crawling across the iron plains of the south. Inside the motor room of the lead tug, the air is heavy with hot oil and ozone, and Mildred Ledbetter sits on a crate, her hands shaking as she holds the hydroponic tray. The greens are dying, their leaves curling inward like fists. I am twelve years old, and my...
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  • The Distant Promise
    Act I My hands were deep in the mortar mix, the trowel scraping the bottom of the bucket with a sound like a bone breaking, when the chill rose from the cellar floor and settled into my knees. I am Jerome Etienne, and for twelve years I have watched the stones of this place, but tonight the mortar refused to bind. The smell of damp limestone and old rot hung heavy in the air, a physical weight...
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  • The Distant Temple
    Who says a dead man’s voice is not a debt? Krystyna Wisniewski sat in the damp dark of her room on one hundred and twenty-six of Lantern Yard, the air heavy with wet wool and coal smoke. The silver locket in her hand was warm. Too warm. It hummed against her palm, a low vibration that matched the beat of her own heart, or perhaps her heart was matching it. Outside, the lorry at the docks...
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