The Sanguine Garden
I. The雾 in November 1888 did not descend upon London so much as it rose from the very earth of it, a grey breath exhaled by a city of four million souls. It curled around the gas lamps of Whitechapel like fingers, and it carried with it the smell of coal smoke, the Thames, and something else—something sweet and cloying that Arthur Blackwood could not place. He was twenty-six years old and had...
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