The Last Star of London
The fog of 1894 did not merely cling to the cobblestones of London; it seemed to swallow the city whole, a grey, suffocating shroud that tasted of coal smoke and dying hopes. In a cramped attic observatory in Bloomsbury, Arthur Penhaligon lived in a world of brass gears, yellowed parchment, and the relentless, hacking cough that tore through his chest. He was a man of the Royal Society, yet he...
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