The Distant Promise
"You are lying," Silas said, not looking up from the escapement he was filing. Elias Thorne did not turn from the window. Outside, the fog in Whitechapel was thick enough to chew on, a grey slurry that swallowed the gaslights of the street below. It was a weather that stopped work, a damp that seeped into the joints of the old building and made the brass cold to the touch. Inside, the workshop...
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