Chapter 4London, November 25, 1910
Track One
Locked in the icy upstairs garret while afternoon turned to black night and the Spider decided what to do with him, Maxwell Carrington weighed his options.
The raw cold bit through the thin fabric of the shirt they had given him. He wished for his frock coat, or for some warming brandy. He was aware that he might as well wish for the moon. Or wings. Or a time machine.
With no other options, he wrapped himself up in the smelly, scratchy, threadbare blanket while he took stock of the situation. He had neither the skill nor the tools necessary to pick the lock. The building’s construction did not seem overly solid, and he thought he might be able to break the door down with a sufficient application of force—but Clay and O’Sullivan were still in
