Limehouse, the East End, London
“You’re certain that this is the place?” St. Cyprian said, looking at the Ministry agent. The man glanced at Morris, as if for confirmation, and then nodded. St. Cyprian sighed and looked across the street at the riverside laundry that lurked between a slop shop and a gin shop. He knew the place, though he wished he didn’t.
The family that ran it claimed to be Tibetan, or Burmese, depending on the day and the nature of the discussion, but St. Cyprian suspected...