the smuggler’s bible


The stairs creep down through the still shadows of the cellar, coiling past dusty alcoves and frost-rimed chambers marked with date placards. Yulianna hacks her way through a tangled curtain of cobwebs and shivers as her boot touches raw earth.

Her map—a stretch even to call it such—is a vague scribble copied from a book she found in a forgotten corner of the library. All men know that THE BOTTOM is the death of reason, the field upon which anguish is sown. But It’s also where grandfather keeps his best vintages and, after all, the party is tonight.