“The shop is called The Last Key and it smells of brine, lamp oil, and hot brass. Hundreds of labeled keys hang from ceiling hooks and nail strips, each with a tag in the proprietor's tidy hand. A side alley runs past the soot-stained wall to a bolted back door, perfect for discreet exchanges. The owner keeps one eye on the tavern and one on the gambling dens, because both send customers who either need a lock opened or a lie laundered. The tavern's barkeep owes the shopkeeper money and begrudgingly sends broken chairs, snapped door bars, and drunken patrons for repairs. Meanwhile, the practical shop next door hates that The Last Key profits from break-ins, but still comes quietly for replacement hardware when their own inventory is short. Beneath the floorboards, the walls sometimes give off a hollow knock, and the proprietor claims it is only old foundation stone. No one believes that for long.”