Rowan Pinwell's Arc

Chapter 1 of 8

Rowan Pinwell climbed down from the attic, twig antlers scraping the low beam. Wind had done what the wind does. Half the torn scraps were gone from the sill, swept into the street below. They had spent the dawn trying to mend each one before the secrets unraveled the town. Now the work was scattering on the breeze. In the street, a scrap lay against the foot of the old stone pillar, its smooth face crowded with faint, layered confessions. The baker's handwriting showed plain on the torn edge. A small crowd was already bending toward the paper. A deer with branching antlers stood near the pillar, watching, ears stitched and still. Rowan pushed through and snatched the scrap before a hand could close on it. They straightened, breathing hard, the paper crumpled tight in their fist. Three other scraps were already gone, pocketed or read. The secrets were loose now. Rowan felt the shift like a door clicking open behind them.