“You’re so talented,” they said. “You see things other people miss. You should be an artist.”   Well, some people said so. Not everyone. Certainly not her parents. “You’ll struggle,” they said. “The term’s ‘starving artist’ for a reason.”   But Constance hadn’t listened. She’d mixed her pigments and created art—bright swirls that breathed, bold lines that sang, and bursts of color that seemed to pulse with life.   She’d quickly found success: a showing at a prestigious galler

When Joshua McAvoy storms out of the lawyer’s office with nothing but a battered journal, it seems his grandfather’s will has torn the...

The stream at the bottom of the garden has no name and appears on no map.