A stranger in a wool overcoat retreats from the panicked crowd and stops next to me. I was surveying the starry horizon when he drew near. He seems calm.
I stick out my hand. “It seems we’re in the same situation. My name is Daniel Bradford.”
The crypt was cold, as expected. What I didn’t expect as I stepped toward my family’s section was the torch light and the murmured words. Nobody visited this crypt; nobody mourned the loved ones entombed there. Nobody but me, of course.
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It was a simple task, delivering a basket of apples to the Spanish militia. The one duty a woman could perform in Zaragoza. But hidden in her basket, Agustina transported divine Aragon apples, sourced from the local orchard believed to be blessed by saints, that offered
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It was a blustery day in October of 1880 when Sherlock Holmes was summoned to a student tenement near the University of London. The telegram requested my presence as well, which was unusual. I went willingly since I had no other appointments that morning.
Lestrade met us outside in the street, visibly shaken and white as a sheet.
The market was usually the loudest place in Tabgha, full of fishmongers waving their latest catches, servants haggling over the price of oxen for their masters, and preachers on street corners trumpeting the end of all things. Yosef didn’t mind. The louder and more
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My brother and I have labored since dawn under the Colorado sky, hacking away at a rock face in a luckless search for silver. Growing numbers of werewolves back East have made that metal more precious than gold. Frustrated, we eat a meager
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With a deep breath, Avery squared his shoulders and entered the fray.
The Highfaye Ball attracted every well-born high elf and faye-blood lady in the city. Each with the single-minded purpose of ensnaring the wealthiest, most eligible bachelor of the season. Half-bloods like Avery need not apply.
“Really, Peter? You’d die for a song?”
My younger brother’s words echo in my ears as I reach for another sheet of music—the prelude to today’s final hymn. The knot in my stomach has nothing to do with the fact that I skipped
My neighborhood can be mean, and some might say I’m the meanest around, but I only do what I do to keep the riffraff in line. And, yeah, maybe I enjoy it a little.
One evening in late winter, with the pavement still slick from slushy snow and the
My name is Gaspard Jerome Masson, and I have one regret.
The last word smudged beneath the old man’s trembling hand. He drew a breath, then continued writing.
Her name was Marie.
###
June 6, 1944
Rennes, France
“Gaspard! They’re coming!”
Gaspard shot up from his seat. Marie burst through the door of his small apartment
I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so cold. The temperature outside was part of it, of course. So was our agreement to burn only one piece of coal at a time. Coal wasn’t cheap, and it was only December 24th, with many
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Marley was dead. Each nail in his coffin bore witness to that.
It was a dreary affair, his funeral. There were no mourners—practically no living souls save the minister, two grave diggers, and Scrooge. Yes, Scrooge. Covetous old sinner! Preoccupied solely with why
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