Where Shadows Dance

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The old tree groans to the blast; The falling branch resounds. The wind drives the clung thorn Along the sighing grass; He shakes amid the night. Dark, dusky, howling is night, Cloudy, windy, full of ghosts; The dead are abroad; my friends Receive me from the night.

—from “The Six Bards,”

James MacPherson, 1736—1796

Chapter 1

Friday, 24 July 1812

A cool wind gusted up, rustling the branches of the trees overhead and bringing with it the unmistakable clatter of wooden wheels approaching over cobblestones. Standing just outside the open gate to the alley, Paul Gibson doused his lantern, his eyes straining as he peered into the fog-swirled darkness. Thick clouds bunched overhead, obscuring the moon and stars and promising more rain. He could see nothing but high, rough stone walls and a refuse-choked muddy lane curving away into the mist.

A dog barked somewhere in the night. In spite of himself, Gibson shivered. It was a dirty business, this. But until the government revised its laws on human dissection, anatomists like Gibson could either resign themselves to ignorance or meet the resurrection men in the darkest hours before dawn.

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