The Blue Eye
The fog in London does not descend. It rises. From the Thames, from the cobblestones, from the breath of a million people who cannot afford to breathe in the open. It wraps the city like a shroud, and inside the shroud, everything is possible. Everything is hidden. Edmund Blackwell knew this. He had spent three months living inside the shroud since Mary died. Three months of waking at four in...
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