The Connoisseur's Last Supper
The fog rolled in from the Firth of Forth like a shroud being drawn across the city, and Alistair Vane stood at his window in the Old Town watching it come. He had been watching the same fog for thirty-seven years now, from different windows in different cities, but there was something about this particular fog that felt like an ending. On the table behind him sat a Steinway upright, its keys...
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