The Keeper of Silent Graves
The rain in London did not fall so much as it hovered, a grey suspension between fog and sky that soaked through wool and bone alike. Thomas Blackwood stood at the iron gate of St. Jude's graveyard, his black coat heavy with moisture, his hands already trembling. He did not need to look at his watch to know the time. The trembling in his fingers was more reliable than any clock. It began as a...
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