The cloaked figure stole into Deidra’s shop, flinching as the bell above her door signaled his arrival. Deidra looked up from the ancient, yellowed pages of her collection on Kumerian legends.
The cloak and hood were not unusual this time of year, considering the cold bite that followed him inside. Yet Deidra got
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My blood freezes. I know that tingling scent. The scent of magic. Magic long dead in these parts. But there… that flicker of tantalizing other. That otherness resonates within me.
I scan the crowded pub for possible sources. Sweat, the stink of unwashed bodies, mutton left too long over the flames
I step into a sea of glass.
Vials of clear liquid fill Scentsational’s shelves from floor to ceiling. Fluorescent light reflects off the glass, momentarily blinding me.
I gape at the shop. I’ve heard whispers but never dared to enter. All these vials supposedly hold different scents appealing to different people.
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“I really hope this artifact is worth all the hassle,” I remarked to my partner, Alma, as we climbed over a caved-in wall. “This maze of ruins is going to drive me crazy.”
“Oh, stop complaining. We’re getting close.”
“How can you tell? This place is so poorly designed.”
At that instant, the floor fell out,
The dark market never changed. Even after sixty years, the rickety stalls seemed apt to blow over at a breath, and the sun unable to penetrate the dark shroud.
Penelope halted at the edge of the alleyway. Jack’s voice echoed in her head––“I want an orb!”––and her staunch response––
“These are the practices we must observe,” Master Yvear said. “Neglect them, and we neglect life itself.”
“Yes, master,” Ranghur said dutifully for the thousandth time.
Or he supposed it was that much. He had been apprenticed to the temple on his seventh birthday, now over three years ago, and he could do the sums.
“Thief!”
Esme stormed across the weathered floorboards of her seaside shop. Displays of enchanted sea-glass and metal pendants swung in the wake of her temper, clinking like warning chimes.
Jack froze, his hand half-in, half-out of the small wooden chest that usually stayed beneath the counter, away from customers’ curious gazes.
“You’re hurting me, Wynn.”
Wynnstan let go of Gemma’s hand. “Sorry.” He glared at his stone fingers, wishing for the hundredth––perhaps thousandth––time that his hands could be soft and delicate, able to hold Gemma like she deserved to be held.
She rubbed her hands together. The creek’s low rumble filled the silence
I just wanted to touch the earth.
Zysteria had heard rumours that soil was much like sand, but she hadn’t quite believed it. Now she was so close—and yet so far.
What was I thinking? Chills swept through her limbs, burrowing into her scales. She thrashed against the sand,
I could hardly contain my excitement when Papa chose me for this mission. The guild’s lost treasure, a great weapon rumored to lay low scores of men in a single breath, had been found at last. The centuries-long quest was drawing to a close and I, Stasya Vorishka, would be the one to complete it.
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“You got the chicken?” Tommy asked, strutting across the outfield grass wearing nothing but boxer shorts.
“Gosh sakes, Spitfield,” I whispered. “Keep it down, will ya?”
“You found one, though?”
“Deli’s closed.”
Tommy raised upturned palms toward the moon. “You had one job, Luis. You buy rotisserie chicken. I bring the jam and jellies. And Roger…”
The knock comes late one sunny morning.
My legs tremble as I go to answer the door. Behind it is a stiff, black-coated constable. And behind him are three men with boxes and bags, ready to steal my treasures.
“Adélie Moreau?”
I twist my hands into my skirt, clear my throat, and nod.
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