The Distant Blade
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, gray mist that clung to the cobblestones of Blackfriars Lane like a shroud. Thomas Ashworth stood on the corner, his shoulder against the damp brick, watching the clock face of St. Jude’s Church. It was three in the afternoon, the hour when the light turned to bruised purple and the shadows stretched long and thin across the wet...
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