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The Darkling Thrush

Josh Lanyon

The Darkling Thrush

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eISBN 978-1-60737-563-0

Editor: Judith David

Cover Artist: Croco Designs

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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or

existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or

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The Darkling Thrush

At once a voice arose among

The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

Upon the growing gloom.

Thomas Hardy, ―The Darkling Thrush‖

Chapter One

The letter was addressed to Mr. Colin Bliss.

It sat on my desk, propped against the framed photograph of Antony and me. This

reminded me that, as we were no longer ―an item,‖ I really needed to dispose of that photograph

of my chief and me. It was bound to look a trifle like I was sucking up, and I'd already done

enough of that in every conceivable form.

I picked up the cream envelope, studied it. There was no return address, which seemed

curious. Brown ink. Another curiosity. Librivenators like myself—in fact, most of the Societas

Magicke—used blue. Other branches of the Arcane Services used purple. The general populace

favored black. I couldn't think of any particular significance to brown. Perhaps the author simply

liked the color. The problem with book hunters is we see a mystery every time pen is set to

paper. One of the problems, anyway. I'd heard I had others. In detail from Magister Septimus

Marx.

The handwriting was spidery and elegant. Absently I turned the envelope over and tried to

peruse it. I can't say I felt any kind of premonition. After all, my kind of trouble would hardly

announce itself with heavy stationery and a fine hand. Who handwrote letters in these days of the

Varityper? Let alone letters like this one, which offered fleeting impressions of genteel age and

sumptuous living: an elderly person…male…an elegant drawing room with heavy velvet drapes,

marble-topped chests, and a spread of tarot cards on the table…

I picked up the pearl-handled letter opener and slit the envelope open.

Dear Mr. Bliss,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aengus Anstruther, and I have the honor of being the

presul of the Museum of the Literary Occult in London. I hope I am not being unduly modest in

assuming that you are familiar with our own humble efforts to preserve the written heritage of

our metaphysical past…

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