The hymn from St. Mary-le-Bow echoed down Cheapside, swallowed by the clatter of carriage wheels and the hiss of gas lamps flickering to life. Nobody stopped to listen. Samuel Peabody adjusted his frayed cuffs for the fiftieth time that hour, the newsprint smudging his fingertips as he extended the latest edition toward the passing crowd. "The Evening Standard, sir? Only a ha'penny," he rasped, but the gentleman in the top hat strode past without so much as a glance, his cane tapping a brisk rhythm against the cobblestones. The ink had begun to bleed through the paper where Samuel's grip had grown damp. He watched as a young couple—she in a plum-colored walking dress, he with muttonchops waxed to sharp points—paused just three paces from his outstretched hand. The woman's gloved fingers tightened around her companion's arm. "Do you suppose it's true what they say about the murders in Whitechapel?" she murmured, voice catching on the wind. Samuel leaned forward instinctively, the headline **"Police Baffled by Third Victim"** facing upward like an accusation. But the man merely tugged his lady away, their boot heels clicking toward the scent of roasting chestnuts. A newsboy darted past Samuel's elbow, his shrill cry of "Extra! Extra!" cutting through the fog like a knife. No one bought from Samuel anymore. Samuel's knees hit the cobblestones with a dull thud that nobody heard. The newspaper slipped from his fingers, its pages fanning out like broken wings in the gutter. Around him, a bus clattered by, spraying flecks of mud across his trousers. The driver didn't even turn his head. Somewhere behind him, a shopgirl's laughter bubbled up like water from a pump, bright and careless. Samuel pressed his palms harder against his eyelids until colors burst behind them—purple, then red, then black. He used to know the names for those colors. Back when he'd mixed inks at the printing house, back when his hands didn't shake...