Caesura

Eight hundred miles of road, and now this.

The wards were floundering, or down entirely. Electricity off. Water disconnected. Dusty trails on everything. But it was home, even if Gladys had to force the door open against an entire freight of mail. At least feeding the fireplace would be easy.

But one package caught her eye. Small, palm-sized. Brown. No addresses, just a curious symbol and a signature: "Fanfaronade".

Gladys didn't like that symbol. It had fervor. Excitement and fluent magic, in all the bad ways. But it was midnight and her bed called.

She left it downstairs.

Plotting.

​

WC: 99

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