Marina

Her story has come to me in whispers of half-remembered conversations, perhaps as much dream now as truth

Rising full over the misty city with its seven hills is the shining snow moon. I watch it from the window of a terraced house on a narrow street. This city is unfamiliar—although its smoke runs through my blood—but the moon is constant.

I wear, on the fourth finger of my right hand, a gold shield ring. In the centre of the shield, an agate edged by seed …