The wool of your father’s coat has turned the color of dried blood, a rust that seeps into the fibers and refuses to wash out, and you wear it because the cold in this palace is not merely a temperature but a physical weight that presses against your ribs, a constant, suffocating reminder that you are an outsider in a house built on stone and secrets. You are Eleanor, the daughter of a man who...
The clock in the steeple of St. Jude’s did not tick, it wheezed, a dry, rattling sound like a lung filled with broken glass, and it was this sound, more than the smell of damp wool or the taste of stale bread, that kept Thomas awake in his small room above the bakery, where the floorboards creaked under the weight of his own restless, turning body. He was twelve, or perhaps thirteen, though the...
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