The Pale Meridian
The sugar was gone, or rather, it had been reduced to a fine, grey powder that tasted of dust and old pennies, and it was this taste that lingered on the tongue of young Arthur Penhaligon as he sat in the shadow of the great brass astrolabe, a relic of a time before the smoke, before the engines, before the world had decided to become a machine that ground its children into dust. He was twelve...
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