From Cradle

Their father’s workshop reeked of old paint and stale beer. Helier was enveloped in it, choked by it,  even though he had yet to cross the threshold. And, as much as he wanted to hate the smell, it still  brought an unsteady comfort as it crawled up his nose to…

Vine posts littered the valley like grave markers, stark against the lush grass that had all but swallowed the vineyard. They were blots of shadow too dark to hide, and too many in number to fell, and so they had been left as stains on the landscape to fade and…