The Shadow of the Clockwork
The smog of 1882 London was a living thing, a grey beast that swallowed the gaslights and turned the Thames into a river of liquid lead. I was twenty-two, a graduate of Cambridge with a degree in mathematics and a desperate need for employment. That was how I became the assistant to Mr. Alistair Finch. Finch lived in a house that felt like the inside of a watch. Every wall was lined with...
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