![]() It was not an old city-not by the standards of those I had seen along my travels-but it bore itself with all the robust pomp and granite certainty of any European harbor town. I would come to know this city well, but in that cold winter of 1892, every glowing window and dark alley was strange, full of untold dangers and enticing mysteries. ![]() The solid ground beneath my feet felt odd after so many weeks at sea, and looming buildings rose up around me on all sides. I made my way forward, carrying everything that traveled with me in a single suitcase. In the inky black of the Atlantic, the reflected glow of the gaslights danced and bobbed. The city of New Fiddleham glistened in the fading dusk, lamplight playing across the icy buildings that lined the waterfront, turning their brickwork to twinkling diamonds in the dark. It was late January, and New England wore a fresh coat of snow as I stepped along the gangplank to the shore. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |