The Faded Quadrant
The steam rose from the ironworks in a thick, sulfurous curtain that swallowed the sky whole, leaving the world to exist only in the narrow, gaslit corridor of my mind, where the memory of the quadrant still hovered, a phantom limb of geometry that I could feel aching even though my hands were empty. I stood before the great brass gate of the Whitmore Institute for the Preservation of Order, my...
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