The Iron Face
Part One The fog rolled off the Irwell River like a shroud, thick and yellow with soot, and Thomas Gray carried it in his lungs as he walked the cobbled lanes of Salford. He was nineteen, small-boned and pale from years of breathing cotton dust, and he carried a clay figurine wrapped in oilcloth beneath his coat. He had pulled it from the ruins of St. Peter's Chapel on Deansgate the week...
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