The Faded Quadrant
The fire started in the cellar, or so the insurance adjuster claimed, but I knew it had started in the air itself, a static charge that had been building for weeks inside the walls of the glasshouse. I was a maker of things, specifically, the intricate brass fittings for the greenhouses that lined the coast, and my workshop was a sealed box of dust and oil, a place where the light never quite...
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