ABRAMS The Art of Books
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Dedication

To my inspirational grandfather,
the author H. Mills West,
and to Rhiannon, Mosca’s godmother

CONTENTS

PRELUDE—
HISTORY FOR THE HOUSEFLY

A IS FOR ARSON

B IS FOR BLACKMAIL

C IS FOR CONTRABAND

D IS FOR DAYLIGHT ROBBERY

E IS FOR EXTORTION

F IS FOR FAIR MARK

G IS FOR GENTLEMAN’S AGREEMENT

H IS FOR HIGH TREASON

I IS FOR INFORMER

J IS FOR JUDGMENT

K IS FOR KIDNAPPING

L IS FOR LOCKPICK

M IS FOR MURDER

N IS FOR NOT PROVEN

O IS FOR OATH

P IS FOR PRISON

Q IS FOR QUESTIONING

R IS FOR REDEMPTION

S IS FOR SEDITION

T IS FOR TRIAL BY COMBAT

U IS FOR UNDEFENDED

V IS FOR VERDICT

A FEW NOTES ABOUT THE FRACTURED REALM

A TRAVEL GUIDE FOR THE FRACTURED REALM

A SNEAK PEEK OF A FACE LIKE GLASS

Prelude— History For The Housefly

PRELUDE—
HISTORY FOR THE HOUSEFLY

“But names are important!” the nursemaid protested.

“Yes,” said Quillam Mye. “So is accuracy.”

“What’s half an hour, though? No one will know she wasn’t born until after sunset. Just think, born on the day of Goodman Boniface, a child of the Sun. You could call her Aurora, or Solina, or Beamabeth. Lots of lovely names for a daughter of the Sun.”

“That is true, but irrelevant. After dusk, that calendar day is sacred to Goodman Palpitattle, He Who Keeps Flies out of Jams and Butter Churns.” Quillam Mye looked up from his desk and met the nursemaid’s gaze. “My child is a bluebottle,” he said firmly.

The nursemaid’s name was Celery Dunnock. She was born on a day sacred to Cramflick, She Who Keeps the Vegetables of the Garden Crisp. Celery had every reason to feel strongly on the matter of names. Her eyes were pale, soft and moist, like skinned grapes, but at the moment they were stubborn, resolute grapes.

Quillam Mye had a most meticulous brain. His thoughts were laid out like the strands of a feather, and a single frond out of place he felt like a tear in his mind. His eyes were dark and vague, like smoked glass.

The twin grapes looked into the smoked glass and saw a mind full of nothing they could understand.

“Call it Mosca and have done with it,” Mye said. Mosca was rather an old-fashioned name for a fly-born, but better than Buzzletrice or Caddis. He returned his attention to the task of writing his treatise. It was a history of the times in which he, and now his infant daughter, lived. It was entitled “The Fractured Realm: A Full and Clear Account of Our Kingdom of Rags and Tatters.”

The door closed behind Celery, and Mye was dimly aware that the level of annoyance in the room had diminished. He was alone. But no, he was not alone.