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The Pale MistThe candlelight in the scriptorium flickers, not from a draft, but from the weight of the silence pressing against the stone walls. It is the year of our Lord 1342, and the fog of Oakhaven has settled so thick upon the cobblestones that the world beyond the window has ceased to exist. You are Elias, a scribe of thirty years, and your hands tremble as you dip the quill into the inkwell. You do...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographCornwall in the late autumn was a place of grey stone and salt air, where the tin mines bled into the sea and the harvest had failed, leaving the villages to buy their grain on credit from the new priesthood. The shrine on the headland was under repair, its walls stripped to the bone, while the loom room upstairs hummed with the rhythm of the weavers who kept the old ways alive in the shadows....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale LetterOctober 12, 1998 The pencil snapped in my hand. The sound was too loud in the quiet kitchen, a sharp crack that echoed off the bare walls. I looked at the splintered graphite, then at the wall where the pale letters were shifting. They were not words. They were shapes, like smoke trying to hold a form, but they moved when I watched them, and they stopped when I looked away. I wanted to read...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetChapter One Carl Pell had not slept in four days, and the frost on the windscreen of his borrowed car was thick enough to hide the road. He sat in the driver’s seat of the reclamation yard, the engine ticking as it cooled, watching the shadows stretch across the dead machines. His father was dying in the hospital two towns over, and Carl held a vial of experimental plasma in his lap. The vial...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe damp in the cellar did not smell of earth, but of wet wool and old blood, a scent that had settled into the very stones of the leper colony of St. Jude’s. I, Elias, held my father’s silver clasp in my palm, the metal humming against my skin with a cold that burned, a faint, pale light pulsing in the darkness like a second heartbeat. It was a relic of the old faith, banned by the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongColm Fitzpatrick was thirty-four years old, a constable in the Burren, and he had not slept in three days because the road to the port was closed by snow. Chapter One I left Eileen at the station on a Tuesday, the air biting at my neck as the steam from the engine mixed with the salt spray of the harbor. I wanted my pension; I wanted to return to the sexton’s office where I sold coffins and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerAct I I wake with the taste of ash in my mouth, the dream of burning paper still clinging to my eyelids, a heat that does not fade when I open my eyes to the grey damp of the Breton morning. I am Celestine Etienne, twenty-four, and I have a payday loan rolled over five times, a debt that breathes down my neck like a dog that will not let go. I need the clerkship at the municipal archive, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceIvana Grigoryan lay in the silt of the reclamation yard, her chest heaving against the cold, wet metal of the dead machines that surrounded her, the air tasting of ozone and rusted iron. It was the third year of the Siege of Kars, or so the court called it, though here on the Swahili coast, under the short, grey light of a winter that seemed to last forever, the war was a matter of oxygen...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThorne. The name is called out by a voice that sounds like it is being dragged through gravel. You wake with your mouth full of the taste of rust and wet stone. The dream is already dissolving, leaving only the sensation of a hand pressing against your chest, heavy as a lead weight. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two, a border patrol officer with the Bureau of Internal Security, and you are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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