Some books record names. This one devours them.
The Ledger is iron-bound, warm to the touch. And starving. It passes from hand to hand, and every soul who carries it pays a price — a memory, a face, a faith, the capacity to feel.
And always behind them walks the silver-masked woman the rain will not touch. She has hunted the book for three hundred years. Because it is the only thing keeping her alive.
From a drowned masquerade to a burning archive, eight bearers carry the Ledger toward the one place it can finally be made to end. Whatever that costs the last hand to hold it.
A book changes hands. It always changes hands. And every hand it leaves is lighter by exactly the thing it could least afford to lose.From The Ash Account