The North Star's Confession
The fog in Cambridge did not merely obscure; it consumed. It rolled down from the fens like a living thing, swallowing spires and cloisters and the occasional gas lamp until the world was reduced to a circle of yellow light and the sound of one's own footsteps on wet cobblestones. Clara Bennett knew these fogs well. She had walked through them every morning for two years, from her lodging near...
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