“Careful with the box, Ms. Gallowglass,” St. Cyprian said as he opened the door to No. 427 Cheyne Walk and allowed Gallowglass to wobble past him, the shuddering devil-box held firmly in her arms. “We wouldn’t want our guest to escape, now would we? Be a shame to add to London’s already-overflowing cornucopia of nightmares if we don’t have to, what?”
“How can two hands be so bloody heavy, is what I want to know,” she wheezed. The devil-box shook in her grip, nearly tearing itself free. “Where...