The air in the Gilded Hall tasted of copper and old honey, a sweet, cloying perfume that coated the back of my throat and refused to wash away. We were children then, a ragged cohort of boys and girls with dirt beneath our fingernails and hunger in our bellies, standing before the High Warden, a man whose face was obscured by a mask of polished gold that reflected our own shivering, desperate...
The letter was written on the back of a requisition form, the paper stained with the dark, oily residue of the engine grease that permeated the air of the foundry. Sergeant Elias Thorne held the pen with a hand that trembled, not from the cold, though the November wind howled through the broken windows of the shed, but from a profound and bone-deep exhaustion that had settled into his marrow...
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