The Faded Frontier
The mortar was wrong. It clung to the trowel like wet clay, refusing to set, refusing to harden into the gray stone that Elias Thorne needed to seal the breach in the north wall. He was forty years old, and his lungs burned with a dry, persistent ache that had nothing to do with the cold air of the St. Jude’s Orphanage. The building breathed. It was a subtle, rhythmic expansion of the masonry,...
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