Everyone's got a teaspoon of salt in their coin purse. Everyone civilized, at least. And not typical salt, either, but the magical and curative grey salt grisodate; the mineral by which tenuous civilization survives. * Steely grey grains, crushed to powder among the pence and the little farthings.
There was a rapping at the door. Wan eyes peered through faceted glass above the knocker, saw a Butler approach within. The latch turned under a white glove. A long-faced, tired man stood on the stoop. He clutched a battered black hat and a large medical bag, smelt of soap and whiskey. "Dr. Rammstein?" said the Butler. […]
Many hundreds of ribbons fluttered in the summer air. Ribbons, tied to the spikes of a hundred soldiers’ helms. Armored men and women grumbled, queued under the swelter. Rough hands fanned sweated necks, tugged clinging metal collars. “Butter me up and call me a beef, Suse. This is an oven,” said a freckly lass to […]