You are the one who finds the blood. It is not bright red. It is dark, dried, and crusted into the weave of the wool coat. You do not think. You feel a cold snap in the chest, a tightening that has nothing to do with the November air. You are a detective. You are a man of procedure. But the coat is yours. No, wait. It is not yours. It is the coat of the boy. The boy who is gone.
The town is...
The Great Hall of the Abbey of Saint Cuthbert smelled of beeswax and stale wine. It was a heavy, cloying scent, the kind that settled in the lungs and refused to leave. Wren sat at the bottom of the long oak table, his small hands wrapped around a bowl of porridge. The oatmeal was thick, gray, and cold. He did not eat it. He watched the steam rise from the mugs of the other brothers, thin...
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