The iron gates of Winterbourne Manor had not opened in three years. Not since the fog took Lady Margaret, and not since they locked Thomas away in the east wing where the gas lamps burned low and the servants whispered.
Thomas did not mind the whispering. He had learned long ago that people who whispered could not reach you. He sat on the window seat of his chamber, legs too short to touch the floor, and watched the London fog press against the glass like a living thing. His hands were small and pink and smooth—the hands of a child of three. He flexed them and felt the strength that did not match their...
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