September 1870, Brighton England The loud and, if Rebecca was going to be honest, hideous clock ticked and whirred, giving fair warning that the wretched bird inside, more spectral raven than cuckoo, was about to burst onstage. The bedraggled little thing made two shrieking appearances before she stilled the Air around it with a sharp pull of her fingers, muffling its third cry. Offended—no, it was not sentient, and unable to take offense, but it … Continue reading →