The Distant Threshold
Chapter One Sabine Zimmermann was a woman of precise measurements. The loom in the basement of the mill at ninety-six of Candlewick Row was not. It breathed. The rain hammered the slate roof, a steady, physical weight that pressed the air down into the coal-smelling dark. I checked the clock on the wall. It said four. The clock on the mantel said five. The discrepancy was a fact I could not...
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