The Pale Dance
The fog in Oakhaven does not roll in so much as it settles, a heavy, wet wool that presses against the windowpanes of my workshop until the glass fogs over from the outside in. I am Elias Thorne, a clockmaker of forty-two years, and I am trying to repair the Great Bell before the winter solstice, a task that is not merely mechanical but a desperate attempt to pay off the bank debt that...
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