The Pale Mist
The banquet hall of the Manchester Watch Factory smelled of beeswax and stale sweat, a thick, cloying perfume that clung to the wool of my tunic. Around the long oak table, men who had served under my command for three years ate with the mechanical efficiency of the looms we guarded. They were good men, these watchmen. They were also, I had come to understand in the quiet hours of the night,...
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