The Distant Metropolis
The gas lamps in the Hall of Antiquities did not buzz; they hissed, a low, continuous exhalation that seemed to come from the very stones of the Victorian floor. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the rotunda, his silhouette swallowed by the amber gloom, watching the single blackbird perched on the brass railing of the mezzanine. It was a small, soot-dusted thing, its feathers matted with the...
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