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On the other side of the train window, he saw now and then square black buildings through the darkness, old farms and villages resting on slopes, churches stinging the clouded sky, buildings extending their fingers like a dead body lying over the hills.
The Golden Key
Marian Womack
Nothing carries everything on its back. So it is with the dead and the living, the past and the present. Now is a wing, and history is beneath it, holding it up.
The alien intelligences that lived beyond the mausoleums of the real had trusted her with their knowledge so that she might lay a road of blood out for them, where they could sit enthroned and dictate the nature of magic from here to the end of the world.
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