The banquet hall of the Ashworth Estate smelled of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and settled into the pores of my skin with a persistence that defied the open windows and the late August breeze that swept across the manicured lawns of the industrial valley below. I stood in the corner, near the heavy oak doors that led to the...
The rain hit the roof of the carriage like a handful of gravel.
Thomas kept his eyes on the road. He did not look at the mirror. He held the reins tight. His knuckles were white.
Behind him, in the dark, sat his friend. His only friend.
Silence filled the space. It was heavy. It pressed against the glass.
Thomas drove. The horses knew the way. They always knew the way.
The estate of Blackwood...
The fever broke in the night.
I woke to the smell of copper. And rot.
The house held its breath.
I am a sinner.
That is the only truth left.
My name is Elias.
It matters little now.
The door was open.
Wind howled in.
I sat up.
Pain lanced through my ribs.
Like a blade.
I looked at the table.
A bowl of broth sat there.
Hot.
Steaming.
I did not make it.
No one else is here.
The house is empty.
Or...
The air in the Hall of Whispers did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect in a place that existed only in the peripheral vision of the mind, but rather of ozone and old rain, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent lie. It was a banquet, though there was no food on the long, polished table, only the faint, shimmering outline of plates that had been cleared away...
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