The Mirror in the Forge
The first time Edward Cross saw the face in the metal, he told himself it was a trick of the light. He was in his studio in East London, a converted warehouse on the banks of the Thames that smelled of salt and iron and the particular kind of damp that comes from a river that has seen too much and forgiven everything. It was 2003, and Edward was thirty-three years old, and he had not slept more...
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