The Golden Farce
The mist that rolled in from the river in the autumn of 1893 did not merely obscure the streets of Harrowgate; it possessed them, a thick, yellowing veil that settled into the gears of the new pneumatic press with a consistency that felt less like weather and more like intent. You were twelve years old, an apprentice to your father at the Bradshaw Ironworks, and your world had narrowed to the...
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