At the mouth of the alley, where the filth of the slums met a slightly wider thoroughfare used by merchant carriages, a scene of grotesque cruelty was unfolding. A small crowd of beggars had gathered at a distance, their faces masks of helpless pity, watching a group of five men.
In the center was a young man dressed in a doublet of sky-blue silk that looked absurdly vibrant against the grey backdrop of the district. His face was flushed with wine and the peculiar, bloated arrogance of a minor noble who had never been told 'no.' He was gripping the hair of a young girl—Harry's sister, Clara—whose face was pale with a sickness that went deeper than fear.
