The fire had taken everything from the Blackwood family, but it had left Edward with something far worse than poverty: it had left him with memory.
Seventeen years old and already carrying the weight of a dead lineage, he sat in the damp cellar of a rented room in Whitechapel, the last surviving page of his father's journal open before him. The candle guttered. Outside, London's fog pressed against the cracked window like a living thing seeking entry. Sarah sat on the wooden crate that served as their only chair, her dark eyes fixed on...
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