See What Quilliam Creates

The last maps of the empire were drawn in blood.

Fog rolls into Port Callan the way trouble always does — quietly, until you can't see your hand in front of your face.

High up in the sky, where the clouds go to sleep, there lived a tiny star named Pip.

"It's repeating."

The conference room smelled like bad coffee and unresolved tension.

The books were hidden in the usual places — behind the bolts of wool crepe, under the cutting table, inside the hollowed lining of a bolt of jacquard that Yasmine had never gotten around to selling.

The house remembered her.

There is a quality of light in late July that doesn't exist at any other time of year. Sofie had been thinking about this since May, cataloguing the light the way she'd started cataloguing everything: the smell of her father's work shirts on the laundry line, the particular pitch of the screen door, the sound of her mother moving through the house in the early morning when she thought everyone was still asleep.