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The Wistful PetalI Sultan Kaya stood at the Iron Gate, his left arm fused into the living stone path that marked the kingdom’s edge. It was 1347, and the air tasted of salt and old iron. The feast of the Iron Gate was in full swing behind him, a blur of torchlight and clinking cups, but Sultan felt only the weight of the stone pulling at his shoulder. He wanted to survive the night’s ritual to keep his debt to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe ledger had four hundred and twelve pages, and Elara Vane had counted every one. She counted them again, her fingers sliding over the brittle, foxed paper, feeling the grit of old dust settle into the creases of her knuckles. It was November in Harrowgate, and the fog pressed against the archive windows like a damp cloth, muffling the streetlights of the main road into dim, bruised smudges....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusAct I The river smelled of the sea, a brine that coated the back of the throat and turned the air in the cabin into something thick and cold. I sat on the edge of the narrow bed, the wood creaking under my weight, and watched the snow settle on the roof like ash. It was the month of the thaw, or so the almanac claimed, but here in the Tohoku snow country, the cold had a monopoly on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundMildred Sturgis pressed the wet, heavy cloth against the rusted iron of the loom, the friction grinding against her palm as she tried to stop the machine’s death rattle. The air in the mill floor was heavy with wet wool and old grease, a texture that coated the tongue and settled in the lungs. She was thirty-four, and her left hand, severed at the wrist and suspended by a thin, humming wire...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustAct I Could a man really weigh less than his own regret? Wen Zhou asked the question to the empty storeroom, his voice sounding thin against the damp brick. He was thirty-four, a cleaner at the strip club that occupied the ground floor of the old imperial warehouse, and his hands were raw from scrubbing the grout. On the workbench before him lay the silver cufflinks of his late mentor, Lao...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceChapter One Does the glass remember the hand that polished it, or does it only remember the grief? I ask this because the edges of the King’s ceremonial mirror are turning black, a creeping rot that smells of iron and old ink, and my hands are bleeding a substance that is not blood but gold. I am Lester Priddy, a gilded artisan of forty-seven years on NineElm Crossing, and I am failing the only...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe notice lay on the desk, a single sheet of heavy cream paper, smelling of ink and old dust. It was a rejection. My name was Thomas, twelve years old, and I was the junior clerk who had missed the Senior Archivist post. The reason cited was "lack of pedigree," a phrase that tasted like copper in my mouth. I wanted the job. I needed the salary. My mother was three weeks from the debtors'...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowCould a man truly give his blood to a flower, and still keep his name? I asked myself this question as I stood before the glass case in the Sultan’s private conservatory, the air inside thick and sweet as rotting fruit. My father had died when I was nine, leaving me and Layla with nothing but the memory of his hands in the soil and a debt that sat on our chest like a stone. I was twelve, and I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleI The glass in the office did not reflect the room; it held the light of the unseasonal sun, a physical weight that pressed against the pane while Nazire Aslan stood before the High Chancellor. She was thirty-four, her trade as a cinema usherette long abandoned for the requisitioned village, and she demanded the release of her brother, Kadir, who had been detained for three days for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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