The Golden Suspect
The tip of the steel file caught on the brass gear, a small, gritty resistance that Elias Thorne felt in the base of his thumb before he heard the faintest, almost imperceptible tick. He held his breath, the air in the workshop thick with the smell of machine oil and stale dust, and leaned in closer to the exposed mainspring of the Great Clock. It was a hairline fracture, no wider than a strand...
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