The rain had been falling for three days when the first telegraph wire snapped.
Isabella Winchester stood at her window in the Cambridge observatory, watching the storm roll across the fenlands. She was twenty-nine years old, pale from years spent indoors among books and instruments, with dark hair that she wore pinned severely back because she had never learned the fashionable coiffures of London society. Her hands were stained with ink and copper sulfate. Her mind was...
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