Chapter 1December, 1802
“No,” Kit Thompson said, for approximately the fifth time, to his Chief Magistrate. “I’m not working, Sam. It’s Midwinter. And you’ve been telling me to take time off for years. And I’ve got Harry—Viscount Sommersby—in Town. No.”
Sam Rookwood, head of Bow Street’s Preternatural Division and Kit’s superior officer, steepled both hands on his desk. Gazed at Kit across them.
Behind him, sleet drifted across London in thin veils: grey, sharp, not quite snow yet. The city lay winter-logged and candlelit, a sprawl of Midwinter cheer and greenery, defiant against the icicle afternoon. The Preternatural Division offices, by contrast, formed a tidy oak-lined nest of neat case files, shelves, Sam’s desk, and—out along the hall—Kit’s own office, which he did not use, mostly
