December 30th, 9 a.m.
After a day of strong winds, a thin mist once again enveloped London, and the sunlight became dull again. The leaden sky shone with a vacant white light, like an incandescent lamp shrouded in white gauze.
The residents of London had long grown accustomed to this odd weather, going about their day as usual. Woolf, the owner of The Dirty Duck Tavern, had gotten up early; today was his day to restock.
Business at the tavern had been good over the past month, all thanks to the Manshtein Brothers, who often treated workers to drinks. Though they were foreigners who had arrived in London just over a month ago, and one would normally expect them to be unwelcome in the xenophobic eyes of Londoners, their reputation had risen remarkably and they were welcomed by the residents of Flower Street....
