In the narrator's name, Mr. Sink commits arson. Not here, oh no. Back home, back where worlds reverse rather than collide. In that world, Mr. Sink swallows smoke and lets it twist inside his lungs. He wonders about how many people see the flames, about how many pens record his thoughts and hopes and dreams about those flames. Whether they capture ( Read more... )

Enter a young woman, properly dressed in a hooded walking-about cloak over her pink Victorian day-dress, a parasol in her hand, although closed. She has the uncertain look of one who is not entirely sure that she knows where she is, but hasn't yet worked out the courage or the inclination to ask for a grounding ( Read more... )

The village where Winnie is posted is many wonderful things, but peaceful it is not. So she comes to the Agora to sit quietly and read and-- maybe-- ask a question. She sticks with reading for a while, to be safe; her choice for today is Beric the Briton, A Story of the Roman Invasion. Clearly some high-class literature ( Read more... )

Landing in the middle of a populated sort of area after spending the last week running for your life through Wales is not, overall, the worst thing that can happen--at worst, Melou figures, he will just keep running, and at best maybe he's lost his pursuers for a little while and maybe he can eat (it has been a week of living on berries and little ( Read more... )

Watson is a practical man, who had, in the years spent with a supremely analytical friend, given up ideas of witchery or magic or impossible things. As such he has no real explanation to why he is standing in the middle of what is most definitely not a cobblestone street filled horses and some of the more interesting odours of London. Naturally, ( Read more... )