The boy’s name was . . . his name has nothing to do with him. He was not remarkable to look upon, thin as a bone picked clean, his hands always ink-stained, his eyes dulled to a shade of black that made the midnight feel bland. Take him by no mistake, however, for his intellect was beyond the moon and the stars. Beyond what was acceptable...
This is the opener of my book. I’m always late. Not for everyone, just for the ones who matter. But the fault is not mine. Father has burdened me with such clusters of work that managing them with dexterity is all but impossible. Even Mother is indifferent, persistent in her course, too preoccupied to afford me even a sliver of courtesy. And...
He wore a suit, immaculate but unremarkable, stitched by hands that understood the virtue of anonymity. The tie at his throat was a single muted flourish of red, almost crimson yet not quite, like a wound drawn vertically on his chest. He had nothing to do, and all eternity to squander. He had nothing to do, and all eternity to waste and misuse...