The Ledger of Blackwater
The fog rolled through Whitechapel like a living thing, thick and yellow as old brandy. Arthur Blackwood pulled his collar tighter and quickened his pace toward the offices of St. Clair and Sons Banking on Threadneedle Street. At twenty-eight, Arthur had learned to move through London like a ghost—present but unseen, necessary but unremarkable. It was a skill that had kept him employed at St....
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