The Iron Garden

Constantinople, 1895. A British correspondent keeps returning to the Yildiz Palace gardens. Eleven visits in eight months. He tells himself it's the light. It's not the light. A woman reads there on Tuesday mornings -- in three languages, switching mid-paragraph, arguing with the page under her breath when she thinks no one can hear. Red hair showing at the edges of what the city allows her to show. He can hear. He's been sitting closer than he needs to for seven visits. There are no monsters in this game. No empires falling. Only the quietest, hardest test of the Twelve Games so far: what do you do when love requires crossing lines that exist for reasons? When choosing each other means choosing what that choice costs other people? Some revolutions happen in a garden, three pages of notes at a time. Book Four of Across Infinities: The Twelve Games.