Leslie Anne Lee 

They said the mist belonged to him. Not the ordinary silver vapor that curled over the lochs at dawn or clung harmlessly to the lower hills after rain, but something older, heavier, almost deliberate. His mist came when the sky was clear. It crept uphill against the wind and swallowed entire roads before travelers realized they had lost their way. It gathered most thickly around the ruined castle above Loch Darragh, where black towers rose from a rocky island and an ancient s