The sky static above Haven-Hold was no longer an invisible physical curiosity.
It had become a living, crackling cage of violet lightning that filled the air between the clouds and the ground.
Every iron weathervane in the city glowed with pale blue St. Elmo’s fire.
Sparks three inches long snapped between brass doorknobs and water pumps along the avenues.
In the underground rail tunnels, where millions of citizens sat on wooden benches, men and women found their hair standing straight up on their heads.
A veteran carpenter in Sector Three patted his gray hair. It felt it float toward the stone vault ceiling like dandelion fluff.
‘The world has turned into an amber rod,’ the carpenter murmured to his grandson.
‘Rub your wool coat against your sleeve, and you can strike a spark off your fingertips.’
