Edgar Skins Novels & Stories

“Skipping breakfast again?” His voice, calm, smooth, faintly amused sliced through the quiet. I froze, fingers still resting on a page about mental barriers. I turned slowly. Edgar stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in black embroidered velvet that caught the light like dark water. “I lost track of time,” I said lightly, closing the book before he could see what I was reading. His gaze flicked to the table, where several other books lay open all of them suspiciously ancient. “It seems you’ve been busy.”