The Velvet Pact
The fog rolled off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow as old gin. Thomas Blackwell pulled his coat tighter and hurried down Petticoat Lane, his leather apron damp with moisture and something darker he did not care to name. He had made his second bargain that night. He could feel the absence where his father's pocket watch had been—a hollow in his chest where memory lived. He could...
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