The fog had settled thick along the river before dawn.
It rolled through the streets in low bands, clinging to boots and hems and the iron rails outside the courthouse. The scaffold stood already assembled in the yard, dark timber slick with moisture. The rope hung still.
Harrow watched from the window of his chambers while the crowd gathered.
They arrived quietly.
No shouting. No carnival noise. Just movement — boots on wet stone, the soft murmur of men speaking into collars turned up against the damp.
Execution mornings were different from court sessions.
People did not come to debate.
They came to witness finality.
Whitcombe entered with a folded paper in hand.
"The condemned are prepared," he said.
Harrow nodded once.
"Proceed."
The first man was brought forward just as the light began to shift from black to gray.
His name was Arthur Finch. Convicted of aggravated assault and manslaughter following a confession that had extended well beyond the original charge.
He walked unsteadily but did not resist.
The priest murmured near his ear. Finch did not appear to listen.
The fog softened the edges of everything — scaffold beams, gathered faces, even the rope.
Harrow stepped into the yard.
Boots sank slightly into damp earth.
The crowd parted to allow him a clear view of the platform.
Finch mounted the steps.
He looked smaller than he had in the dock.
The rope was placed around his neck.
His breath fogged faintly in the cold air.
"Do you have final words?" the priest asked.
Finch nodded.
"I struck him," he said.
The priest blinked.
"Yes," he replied softly. "You have said so."
"I struck him," Finch repeated. "And I struck my brother when we were boys. I told no one."
The crowd shifted.
The priest tried to quiet him.
"You must make peace," he urged.
"I took money," Finch continued. "From my mother's purse. I told her it was the neighbor's son."
The hood was drawn over his head.
His voice continued beneath the fabric, muffled.
"I hit a dog once. Broke its leg. Left it."
The executioner glanced toward Harrow.
Harrow gave a slight nod.
The lever was pulled.
The trapdoor fell.
Finch dropped.
There was a crack.
But not a clean one.
His body jerked violently.
One shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle.
The rope strained.
Instead of stillness, there was movement — a harsh, convulsive tightening that lasted longer than it should have.
A low sound escaped from beneath the hood.
Wet.
Choked.
The crowd did not cheer.
They watched.
Finch's legs twitched.
Then slowed.
Then hung still.
The fog swallowed the platform edges.
The priest bowed his head.
Harrow did not.
The second condemned man was brought forward.
This one younger.
Charged with robbery and assault.
He climbed the steps more slowly.
His hands trembled.
The rope brushed his jaw.
Before the hood could be drawn, he began speaking.
"I did not only rob him," he said. "I robbed others."
The executioner hesitated.
"State your final words," the priest prompted gently.
"I pushed a man into the canal," the condemned said. "Years ago. He lived. I told no one."
The crowd's breathing seemed to tighten as one.
The executioner glanced again toward Harrow.
Harrow's expression did not change.
The hood came down.
The rope was set.
The lever pulled.
This drop was cleaner.
The body snapped once and hung.
But even as it swung slightly in the fog, the crowd did not disperse.
They remained.
Watching.
As if waiting for something else to happen.
Harrow stood with hands folded behind his back.
Two men dead.
Justice carried out.
Confession complete.
Yet the atmosphere did not settle.
It felt suspended.
A murmur began near the back of the yard.
A man stepped forward from the crowd.
He removed his cap.
"I struck my wife," he said loudly. "Last winter."
The priest turned sharply.
"You are not before the court," he said.
The man swallowed.
"I should be."
A constable moved toward him.
Harrow raised a hand.
"State your name," he said.
The man did.
Whitcombe, who had followed into the yard, looked momentarily stunned.
Harrow's gaze moved across the gathered faces.
Many avoided looking at him.
Some stared with wide, unblinking eyes.
The man from the crowd stepped aside when instructed, as if relieved.
The fog seemed thicker now.
Dampness clung to hair and lashes.
Harrow turned back toward the scaffold.
The bodies were being lowered.
The rope creaked softly as it was loosened.
Everything had proceeded according to order.
Yet as he returned toward the building, he felt the weight of the morning pressing down harder than before.
Not fear.
Pressure.
Behind him, another voice rose from the crowd.
"I took coin from my employer," someone said.
Another voice:
"I lied in court once."
The confessions were not shouted.
They were spoken.
Layered over one another.
Harrow did not stop walking.
The door to the courthouse closed behind him, muting the sound.
Inside, the corridor felt warmer.
But only slightly.
Court would resume within the hour.
And if the morning had revealed anything, it was that admission did not end with the rope.
It continued.