London fog did not merely obscure the streets; it swallowed them whole. Arthur Pendelton watched it press against the study window like a living thing, and for the first time in three years, he wondered if Eleanor could see it too.
She could not. She had not seen anything clearly since the spring. Arthur turned from the window and looked at the desk before him. The manuscript lay in a neat stack of pages, bound with twine. He had written it in silence, in the hours after Eleanor's screams had faded from the hallway, after the servants had stopped pretending not to hear them. Four hundred and twelve pages of confession, of...
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