The Golden Circuit
The letter lay on the mahogany desk, its seal unbroken, smelling faintly of camphor and old dust. Arthur Penhaligon stared at it, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from a strange, hollow vibration that seemed to emanate from the very floorboards of his workshop. It was November in the year 1893, and the city of Millhaven was wrapped in a shroud of coal smoke that turned the afternoon...
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