The Aetheric Mirror
The fog of London in 1892 did not merely cling to the cobblestones; it seemed to breathe, a grey, suffocating entity that swallowed the gaslights and the secrets of the Empire. For Arthur, a man whose name had been erased from the annals of the Royal Society, the fog was a sanctuary. In the damp cellar of a derelict warehouse in Southwark, he lived among the hum of brass coils and the scent of...
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