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The Eighth Colour[English Version] Rain on Mulberry Street at 2 AM sounds like a thousand tiny knives being sharpened against the pavement. Victor Halloran sat in his office drinking from a bottle that had once contained something expensive and now contained something cheaper, staring at an envelope that had once contained something that didn't exist. The envelope was brown paper, standard business size. Inside...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 42 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The gull arrived on a Tuesday in November, wrapped in oilcloth the colour of old bruises.Arthur Pendelton opened his front door on Whitechapel Road to find Captain Elias Voss standing on the step, a man he had not seen in ten years. Voss looked thinner than Arthur remembered, his face drawn tight over his cheekbones as though the skin had forgotten how to sit properly. His coat was damp with fog. "I brought you something," Voss said. His voice was a whisper, as though speaking...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 23 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The gull arrived on a Tuesday in November, wrapped in oilcloth the colour of old bruises.Arthur Pendelton opened his front door on Whitechapel Road to find Captain Elias Voss standing on the step, a man he had not seen in ten years. Voss looked thinner than Arthur remembered, his face drawn tight over his cheekbones as though the skin had forgotten how to sit properly. His coat was damp with fog. "I brought you something," Voss said. His voice was a whisper, as though speaking...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 40 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The moon over the Danube was the colour of old ivory, pale and cold and watching everything with the indifferent eye of something that had seen civilizations rise and fall and seen them all with exactly the same expression.Viktor von Amsel stood on the deck of the private yacht, watching the island emerge from the river mist like a thought emerging from the subconscious—slowly, reluctantly, and with an air of having been deliberately suppressed for too long. He had received the letter three days ago, written on cream-coloured stationery in a hand that was either elegant or affected. It had arrived slipped beneath...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 10 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The moon over the Danube was the colour of old ivory, pale and cold and watching everything with the indifferent eye of something that had seen civilizations rise and fall and seen them all with exactly the same expression.Viktor von Amsel stood on the deck of the private yacht, watching the island emerge from the river mist like a thought emerging from the subconscious—slowly, reluctantly, and with an air of having been deliberately suppressed for too long. He had received the letter three days ago, written on cream-coloured stationery in a hand that was either elegant or affected. It had arrived slipped beneath...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 9 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The sea off the Lofoten Islands was the colour of iron, which is to say it was the colour of nothing in particular, the way a man's face is the colour of nothing when he has stopped pretending to feel anything.Erik Solberg sat on the rocks above the fjord and watched the tide. He had been watching the tide for eleven months and fourteen days. Every morning at 5:30, he sat on these same rocks with a waterproof notebook and a pencil wrapped in oilcloth, and he recorded the water level, the wind speed, the direction, the temperature of the air and the sea. He did this because his mentor, Arne Rasmussen,...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 79 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The sky above the Yorkshire moors had been the colour of a bruise for three weekThe sky above the Yorkshire moors had been the colour of a bruise for three weeks running. Arthur Pendelton stood at the eyepiece of the three-foot reflector and watched the impossible thing happen again. Capella, the bright star in Auriga, flickered. Not the steady atmospheric shimmer that every astronomer knew, not the twinkling that came from air in turbulence. This was deliberate....0 Commentaires 0 Parts 8 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The sky above the Yorkshire moors had been the colour of a bruise for three weekThe sky above the Yorkshire moors had been the colour of a bruise for three weeks running. Arthur Pendelton stood at the eyepiece of the three-foot reflector and watched the impossible thing happen again. Capella, the bright star in Auriga, flickered. Not the steady atmospheric shimmer that every astronomer knew, not the twinkling that came from air in turbulence. This was deliberate....0 Commentaires 0 Parts 15 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The townhouse in Bloomsbury was the colour of old teeth.Elinor Vane stood on the doorstep and looked up at the four stories of brick that had belonged to her father for thirty-seven years and now belonged, by some legal technicality that made her laugh out loud, to a distant cousin in Leeds who had never met any of them and would not come to claim it for at least six months. "Four floors," Marianne said, dragging their mother's trunk up the front...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 11 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The townhouse in Bloomsbury was the colour of old teeth.Elinor Vane stood on the doorstep and looked up at the four stories of brick that had belonged to her father for thirty-seven years and now belonged, by some legal technicality that made her laugh out loud, to a distant cousin in Leeds who had never met any of them and would not come to claim it for at least six months. "Four floors," Marianne said, dragging their mother's trunk up the front...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 13 Vue 0 Aperçu
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The Faded QuadrantThe Faded Quadrant By Edmund Ashworth The house at the end of Harlowe Lane had always smelled of dust and memory. Not the cheerful dust of an afternoon sunbeam, the kind that dances and makes you think of childhood attics and grandmother's trunks. No—this was the other kind. The kind that settles when nothing new is born, when the walls themselves have exhaled their last warm breath and...0 Commentaires 0 Parts 11 Vue 0 Aperçu
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