Brek liked attics, especially ones with dust motes raised by every motion, the air-whisper of particulate matter wafting like the shadows we no longer had.
Cornelia preferred a graveyard. Traditional, she was. A homemaker tending to her plot. She circled the rosebush planted by her husband as it grew thorn-studded, blossom-beautified, maturing into sawtooth-tangles that consumed her entire headstone.
Lamb lurked side-stage at the opera house: a ripple in velvet curtains, a glimmer under low lights. He got high on the sopranos’ shrieks, vibrations quivering his ectoplasmic bonds.
