The Crimson Masquerade
The fog rolled in off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow as opium smoke. Dr. Eleanor Vane stood at the window of her consulting room in Bloomsbury and watched it consume the gas lamps on the street below. One by one, their light was swallowed, leaving only a diffuse orange glow, as if the entire city were breathing through a filter of milk and ash. She turned from the window and...
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