Six days a week, Charlotte Trent does not exist.
Since her mother died, she has been Charlie: flat cap, corduroys, cropped hair, a boy's voice kept low in her chest. It was meant to last one winter. It has lasted three. Every undertaker from Kentish Town to the river knows the photographer's steady-handed apprentice. Not one of them has ever seen the girl who comes out of a chest under the bed on Sundays.
Then a sitting in Belgravia puts a murdered heiress in front of her lens, and Charlie photographs the one thing a very careful man needs erased.
Her father is beaten half to death. The police call it common housebreaking and sign it away. The case is closed by order, from somewhere high and quiet, and a girl of fifteen is left alone with a wrecked shop, a hidden negative, and a killer who already knows her address.
She has no money, no name worth anything, and no friend on the sunny side of the law. What she has is an archive ten years deep, a daybook in her own careful hand, and an old resurrection man who took one look at her on the doorstep and said girl.
Four throats. One thumb. One man who has never once been made to answer.
How do you hunt a gentleman when you are nobody at all?
Genre: Sagas
Since her mother died, she has been Charlie: flat cap, corduroys, cropped hair, a boy's voice kept low in her chest. It was meant to last one winter. It has lasted three. Every undertaker from Kentish Town to the river knows the photographer's steady-handed apprentice. Not one of them has ever seen the girl who comes out of a chest under the bed on Sundays.
Then a sitting in Belgravia puts a murdered heiress in front of her lens, and Charlie photographs the one thing a very careful man needs erased.
Her father is beaten half to death. The police call it common housebreaking and sign it away. The case is closed by order, from somewhere high and quiet, and a girl of fifteen is left alone with a wrecked shop, a hidden negative, and a killer who already knows her address.
She has no money, no name worth anything, and no friend on the sunny side of the law. What she has is an archive ten years deep, a daybook in her own careful hand, and an old resurrection man who took one look at her on the doorstep and said girl.
Four throats. One thumb. One man who has never once been made to answer.
How do you hunt a gentleman when you are nobody at all?
Genre: Sagas
Visitors also looked at these books
Used availability for Rosie Darling's The Mourning Light