The Pale Verdict
The bell above the door of Silas Vane’s workshop did not ring so much as it groaned, a low, mournful note that seemed to rattle the very dust motes hanging in the late afternoon light. Silas was bent over a workbench cluttered with the detritus of a dying trade, his fingers stained with the black grease of clock mainsprings and the pale residue of silver solder. He was a man who dealt in...
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