The train coughs into the station of Oakhaven, a beast of iron and soot, exhaling steam that chills your bones. You step onto the platform, your boots sinking into the wet gravel. The air tastes of coal dust and damp wool. You are here for the mill. You are here for the work. You are here because the mirror in your old house in London showed you a face you did not recognize, a face stripped of...
The ink is wet. It smells of iron and rain. I am writing this from the cellar of my shop in Lyon, where the air is thick with the scent of molten brass and the faint, sweet rot of the lilies I keep in the jar. They are dying. They have been dying for three days. I do not water them. I watch the petals curl, brown at the edges, falling like ash onto the stone floor. This is how it must end. Not...
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