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  • The Chemistry of One Wrong Crate
    Jimmy Callahan had been in the business for six years by the spring of 1925, long enough to know that survival in Chicago's liquor trade depended on three things and three things only: reliable suppliers, disciplined drivers, and the exact maintenance of territorial boundaries that had been drawn in blood and redrawn in more blood and which now existed as a kind of invisible map that everyone...
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  • The Mastiff and the White Eel
    ACT I: THE BURIED BONE Thomas Green did not hear the dog die. He was three miles away at the shipyard, hammering copper sheathing onto the hull of a packet bound for Bristol Channel, and the sound of the port—seagulls, rigging, the creak of timber—covered everything. Bax died in the yard behind Thomas's cottage, a yard that smelled of salt and tar and the damp wool of an Irish terrier who had...
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  • The Iron That Never Cooled
    The first breach came at the stroke of noon, when Cornelius Van Rensselaer watched the ticker tape stutter and die in the middle of a Northern Pacific consolidation order, and he did not throw his inkwell at the wall. That was the first sign. In forty years of trading, through the Panic of 1873, through the silver collapse of 1893, through three recessions and two railroad bankruptcies,...
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  • THE MIRROR IN THE BASEMENT
    ACT I: THE WINDOWLESS ROOM Lord Alistair Finch-Worthingham inherited Blackwood Park on a Tuesday in November, which seemed appropriate: Tuesdays were the kind of days on which serious things happened—inheritances, deaths, the slow realization that one's life has been a performance for an audience that stopped watching years ago. The house was exactly as one might expect a country house named...
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  • The patient from below
    Dr. Eleanor Hart had been coming to the Blackwood Institute for three weeks when she first heard the word transfiguration. The patient who said it was in Room 217—the highest security room on the fourth floor, where the walls were padded with beige fabric that had been stained by decades of fingerprints, heads thrown against them in moments of despair, and hands pressed flat in moments of...
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  • The Velvet Underworld
    I have been working at this club for eleven months and fourteen days. I know this because I count the days. It is a bad habit, like watching the clock or measuring your tea in grams, but it keeps the hours from dissolving into one another like sugar in hot water. Her name is Evelyn Cross, and she sings on the stage every Friday and Saturday night. She has a voice like dark honey—thick, golden,...
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  • The Silenced Truth
    The fog of London did not merely drift; it clung to the cobblestones like a damp shroud, swallowing the gaslights of the City in a jaundiced haze. Arthur stood by the window of his cramped office, his fingers stained with the ink of a thousand redacted documents. He was a man of law, or so he believed, until he found the ledger. It was a simple leather-bound book, misplaced in the archives of...
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  • The Prima Materia
    The library of Wentworth Hall had not been opened in forty years. Not because the books were valuable—they were, in some cases, very valuable, but more often they were just old and damp and smelling of mildew—but because Edgar Wentworth, the seventh baron, could not bring himself to enter a room that reminded him so strongly of what his family had lost. The house was large and empty and...
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  • THE DARK CIRCUIT
    The radio in the break room had been broken for three weeks and Jack Murdock kept meaning to fix it and kept not meaning to fix it, which was typical of Jack Murdock—he kept meaning to do things and kept not doing them, which was how you ended up thirty-four years old, drafted into a war you didn't understand, fixing electrical equipment in a hole beneath the earth. "Come on, you old bitch," he...
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  • The Ledger of Us
    ACT I: THE VULNERABILITY The numbers were beautiful in the way that only a well-ordered system can be beautiful. Arthur Whitmore loved them for that. They came to him in neat rows at the Mercantile Trust & Savings Bank on 135th Street, column after column of deposits and disbursements, loans and repayments, and at the bottom of each column the sum total that either balanced or did not balance....
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  • THE PATIENT FROM BELOW
    Dr. Arthur Voss could not remember how he had arrived at the hospital. This was not, strictly speaking, true. He remembered driving through Vienna on a February evening in 1896, the gas lamps casting amber pools on the wet cobblestones, the carriages bouncing over puddles that reflected the windows of the cafés where men sat drinking brandy and talking about the future of the Balkans. He...
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  • The Clockwork Anchor
    The fog of London did not merely drift; it possessed the city, a thick, sulfurous shroud that tasted of coal and forgotten prayers. In the heart of this grey purgatory lived Arthur, a man whose world was measured in the rhythmic, obsessive ticking of a thousand brass gears. Arthur was a clockmaker by trade, but a physicist by obsession. He lived in a narrow townhouse that leaned precariously...
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