a blurry, swaying mess, just like the inside of my head. A woma

aby, list

d photographs in the history books I used to study.

slurred, her words thick with laudanum.

nst my bare arms. Outside, the city was a blur of brick and steel, smokestacks coughing gra

hive, carefully handling a brittle reel of nitrate film. The smell o

one else's body, living

held up a small, elegant cloche hat. It was beautiful, a deep sapphire blue,

it for me. She

e was carved from granite opened my door. Arthur "Artie" Gallo. His eyes wer

looked at my mother. "T

ar, clutching her new hat like a

n me. It was heavy, possessive.

ed everything, heavy velvet curtains, and the constant, low hum of a generator

er a glass dome, sat a ro

lass. "The last known copy of The Seraph

legendary silent picture by a famed European director, thought to be destroyed in

didn't reach his eyes. "I like to give

jawline. "You're new. You're f

to endure it. I had to play the game. For now, this film reel was t