The Golden Ritual
The brass gear slid between my thumb and forefinger, cold and slick with oil. I was fitting the escapement anchor of the Grand Meridian, the great clock intended for the town hall of Oakhaven. My hands shook. They always did when I worked the fine teeth, a tremor that had settled into my joints three years ago, the same year Arthur died in the mines. The shop smelled of copper and dust....
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