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  • The Mountain's Mouth
    Part I Dr. Thomas Beauregard had lost his left eye in an accident he never discussed and his patients never questioned. The prosthetic was glass and brass, a Victorian-era replacement that looked disturbingly real until it caught the light at the wrong angle, at which point it revealed itself as exactly what it was: a dead thing wearing the face of a living one. The patient was a girl named...
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  • The Iron Age of Ambition
    Edward grew up in the soot-stained alleys of Manchester, the son of a weaver who had been replaced by a steam-powered loom. He spent his childhood in the shadow of the great mills, watching the smoke blot out the sun and the wealth of the empire flow into the pockets of a few men who had never touched a piece of fabric in their lives. He didn't seek revenge; he sought mastery. Edward possessed...
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  • The Knot That Broke
    The first thread to pull was a missed rent payment. It was February 1985, and the tenant at 47 Cable Street, a man named Raymond Cole, had not paid his rent for three months. The landlord, a Pakistani immigrant named Asif Malik, had been patient because Raymond was a good tenant—quiet, respectful, never caused trouble—but patience had limits, and Asif had his own bills to pay. He gave Raymond a...
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  • The corner of seventh
    The thing about Brooklyn is that nobody notices when it ends. Not because it ends loudly. Because it ends the way a neighborhood ends when the rent goes up too high and the bodega becomes a boutique and the bodega guy moves to Queens and the street where you grew up has a new name that nobody uses. Quietly. Systematically. Without anyone throwing a punch. Eliot Rosenberg lived on the corner of...
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  • The Long Way Down the Rank
    ACT ONE: THE RAIN ON CONSTITUTION AVENUE The rain had been falling on Washington for three days straight, turning the streets into rivers and the sidewalks into mirrors that reflected nothing worth seeing. Jack Morano sat in his office at the Navy's logistics department, staring at a stack of supply reports that might as well have been written in another language. He had been reading the same...
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  • The Museum of Souls
    (Style: Victorian Aesthetics) Adrian lived in a world of colors that no one else could see. In the bohemian heart of 19th-century Paris, where the air was thick with the scent of absinthe and oil paint, Adrian was the most sought-after portraitist in the city. His subjects didn't just look like themselves; they looked like their most secret, most intense truths. Adrian's gift was the 'Chromatic...
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  • The Last Encore at the Cotton Club
    The Last Encore at the Cotton Club The Last Encore at the Cotton Club I. The rain in New York in the winter of 1925 did not fall so much as accuse -- a steady, insistent drumming against the windows of the Morrison speakeasy on 47th Street that made every conversation inside sound like it was being told in confidence. Eleanor Shaw stood at the bar, her coat still damp at the shoulders,...
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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 Double Life of Thomas Vance
    Thomas Vance opened the bookshop at nine in the morning and he closed it at six in the evening and he did exactly the same thing every day for three years. He straightened the books. He wiped the counter. He drank tea from a cup that said World's Best Bookseller in letters that were chipped and fading. He watched the people walk past the window and he thought about nothing. This was exactly...
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  • The lighthouse stood at the edge of the world, or at least the edge of Cornwall,
    The storm that night was the worst in recent memory. The wind screamed through the church lane like a wounded thing. Clara should have been asleep. She was not. She was following lights. Not the lighthouse beam—that swept its predictable arc across the churning sea. These were smaller, stranger, flickering erratically along the cliff path below the church. A person? In this? Madness. But...
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  • The Double Life of Thomas Vance
    Thomas Vance opened the bookshop at nine in the morning and he closed it at six in the evening and he did exactly the same thing every day for three years. He straightened the books. He wiped the counter. He drank tea from a cup that said World's Best Bookseller in letters that were chipped and fading. He watched the people walk past the window and he thought about nothing. This was exactly...
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  • The Experiment at Blackwood
    Act One: The Book in the Margin The boy was seven years old and reading a book that had no business in the hands of a child. Dr. Julian Blackwood saw him in the reading room of the York Minster library, sitting on the floor with his back against a stone pillar, a copy of Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams open on his knees. The book was water-stained, its pages dog-eared, the margin filled...
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