The Shadow of the Lamb
I. The fog rolled off the Thames like a living thing, swallowing the gas lamps whole. Eleanor Vance stood at her desk in the East India Company headquarters on Leadenhall Street, staring at the document in front of her. It was a shipping manifest, innocuous enough on its surface—bales of Bengal silk, crates of calico, bolts of muslin. But tucked between pages thirty-seven and thirty-eight was...
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