Midnight in Batista. A deep, whale-like moan bellowed through the sleeping city like an omen, and the dust blew in. It reached below the creaking floorboards of a nursery; down to the wolfhounds and slumbering Overseers that mumbled in their beds; to the chipped grounds of alleyways that strays and orphans called home.
And up above, on the second floor of the Crone’s Hand Saloon, it reached past the white shutters and into Paolo’s ears, who spun on his couch half-awake from troubled dreams.
A plume of silver dust slipped through the crack of his window. He tasted metal in the back of his throat.
Off you go now, dearie. It has been such a long day, she crooned, her voice echoing in his skull. Close those eyes and Granny will finish that story for you.
Paolo huffed. "Oh, and you weren’t finished? Because I remember you telling me that story last night. And the night before that,” he corrected, desperately closing his bloodshot eyes. “You had your time.”
She clicked her tongue. Then shushed.
There, there. One more word and you won’t like it... No more talking now.
Beside his ear, on the sunken pillow, the hand furled then unfurled. Her cold finger pressed against the scar on the back of his head, then he felt it, the lines she traced, the circles she drew on the nape of his neck, and consumed by exhaustion, he was coaxed into oblivion like a man taken by the tide...
In his dreams, she finished her story. The same one for the third night.
A man was gurgling through a hole in his cheek. A dim light snuffed from his eyes, and he dissolved into the bubbling stew below.
