The Wistful Skyline
The carriage wheels ground against the gravel, a sound like dry bones breaking, as I arrive at the Abbey of St. Jude in the late autumn of 1893, my hands already trembling with the palsy that has begun to steal my livelihood. I am Elias Thorne, a master clockmaker of fifty years, and I have come here not for the prestige of repairing the Great Horologium, but for the money, for the desperate,...
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