She Who Waits (Low Town, #3)

by Daniel Polansky

It was the kind of autumn afternoon where you can smell winter in the air, that scent that’s part wood smoke and part the cold that makes the first necessary.

Flies come quicker than you’d think, quicker than the hoax, near as quick as remorse.

Somewhere along the line people reduce themselves to numbers in a ledger, and at that point you’re truly damned. It’s a rather concise definition of power – when you no longer need to look at the names.