The Pale Dance
The rain did not fall so much as it was thrown, a horizontal sheet of grey water that turned the cobblestones of the Whitehall district into slick, treacherous mirrors, reflecting the gaslight in fractured, trembling halos. You stood at the end of the alley, your uniform soaked through to the skin, the heavy wool feeling less like protection and more like a burial shroud, while the sound of the...
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