​A splash of milk swirled in Tremaine’s coffee. The dairy billowed, folded in on itself, and bled across the steaming surface. It was like the unpredictable dreams that plundered his sleep. Dozing off while reading, books had haunted him last night. Leathery tomes had leapt off a high shelf, pages fluttering open like gannet wings, carrying away words as he snatched at them, desperate to capture their knowledge. Tremaine rubbed his groggy eyes. Slurped coffee. His granny had loved the drivel of dreams; a Scotswoman who believed in second sight. Portents, she’d eerily claim, spouting dire warnings. She’d tried to fill his head with her fey rubbish. It had frightened him as a lad. Guzzling caffeine, he read Carlisle’s nightly crime report: thirteen drunk and disorderlies, five assaults, three criminal damages, two burglaries. The Inspector set aside the sheet, drained his mug. His spooky gran was wrong. There were no predictions or prophesies to be found in sleep. It was just nonsense cluttering his brain, leaving him exhausted. He hated ambiguous dreams. Life was cut-and-dried, made brittle by people’s foolish acts.

-- Excerpt from The Stars Prevail