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June 25 - August 1, 2025
The ghosts of her memories grew legs when she saw what was inside. The color of the car was impossible to make out under layers of dust, tiles, and rubble, but the shape of it was unmistakable. That old Bentley was waiting for her, horribly wrecked from the crash that had ended the lives of three people so many years ago.
“You’ll realize you need this fortune, and you’ll come asking me for it. I just hope you come in time.”
If you’re trying to stop believing that death is coming for you, January is not the month to hold your hand and convince you otherwise. January is sharp, icy edges and dead earth, and it will remind you over and over again that in certain conditions, nothing survives.
“When Peony Lane was wrecking Edmund Gravesdown’s car, she cut the brake cable.”
“When I was twenty-three, I married Lucy Stokes, who was the librarian. She was a couple of years older than me, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
In an unexplained turn of events, a stone found in the road appears to be a rough-cut ruby, which police speculate might have come loose from some jewelry, though nothing matching has been found.
“The bird returns, but it’s you who are the bringer of death. You cannot cast the shadow of a shape that’s not your own. One death with three to blame, or three deaths with one to blame—the circle must complete. The list you seek is the right one—the foil, the arrow, the rat, the sparrow. It begins with a secret revealed, and ends with the secret destroyed.”
“The person who we rescued that day? The girl who was too drugged to know her own name? That was Birdy Sparrow.”
Because apparently on March 6, in some year that I can only guess was around 1967, Archibald Lester Foyle married Frances Jane Adams.
He kissed me then, and Archie Foyle kisses like he laughs—like he’s finally got to the chorus of his favorite song, like he’s in flight, like he’s in love.
