Caspar Malemayn has not heard silence in fifteen years.

He’s the necromancer at Nightshade & Co., the Bloomsbury agency that takes the cases the police can’t close. Silver and strong tea hold the voices of the dead to a murmur. Nothing makes them stop.

Then the Met sends him a body that won’t speak. Then another.

Bran Mortlake is the still man...

CASPAR MALEMAYN HAS RUN OUT OF SILVER.

The corset that held London to a murmur is folded on a chair, kept and useless. His ribs will not take the lacing, and the workshop that has drawn his stays his whole working life has been bought out by a trust with no findable trustee. He works the city at full volume now, with nothing between him and the...