Tulliæn spans a fractured mountaintop, where the locals lie and the tourists come to die. Try the honey. Briskwater crouches deep in the shadow of a dam wall. Ignore the weight of the water hanging overhead, and the little dead girl wandering the streets
I put out a hand to steady myself as the vision took me. The parquetry floor washed to black...As if sparked by the hard glare, a fire burst and raged through the room, the flames hot enough to crisp bones and raise the smell of marrow burning to cinders.
