The Last Ascension
London, 1888. The fog pressed against the hospital windows like a living thing, thick and yellow with coal smoke and something older, something the nurses whispered about but never named. Dr. Edmund Blackwood stood at his desk in St. Bartholomew's, the lamplight catching the silver stethoscope at his neck. He was thirty-two, lean and sharp-boned, with hands that could suture a wound in...
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