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LONDON, EARLY APRIL 1817
Dark night. Almost no moon showing through the fog-shrouded haze.
Still. Quiet. Peaceful. Lonely.
Just as Niclas wanted it to be.
Only those souls who haunted such nights were out now: prostitutes, gamblers, drunkards, and thieves. Those who were lost and those who sought respite in the black shadows. Even so, the docks were nearly empty, all saner folk keeping themselves well within taverns and gaming hells, out of the cold, damp darkness. The few whose steps and voices passed within his hearing wisely stayed away from Niclas Seymour’s tall, foreboding