*Maddy*

When I was a child, my father came home from one of his mysterious merchant trips with a large, fabric bound book. It was large enough to cover my entire lap, and so heavy I couldn’t lift it on my own. The cover was embroidered with whirls and swirls of silver and gold thread, the outer edges detailed with delicate symbols and lettering none of us could read.

“It’s very old, Starling,” he’d said to me, laying the book carefully in my lap as I trembled with ...