Memories in Bronze, Feathers, and Blood

His pain is too much; we cannot hide any longer. In a flutter of copper wings, we descend from the pine tree, settle near Nezahual: the hummingbirds on his shoulders; the parrots on the stone rim of the fountain; the lone quetzal balancing itself on the handle of the broom.

But we—we are alive, in a way that no other making will be.
The Jewels of Montforte, Pt. II

Now a cold anger overcame Absinthe. How could this boy deign to come between him and his treasure, tittering his way across the Archipelago? How could he himself think that frills and creamy silks could deliver into his hands what he desired? Elaborate capers were all well and good at whiles, but most times the only solution to a problem was a swift, sure, well-delivered blade.

Absinthe plunged into the water, and for a moment he could not breathe.
Audio Fiction Podcast:
Remembering Light

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“Nothing in Driftwood is free. What do you want?”