The Pale Tale
The ledger lay open on the workbench, its pages swollen with damp, the ink of the last entry bleeding into a brown smear. Elias Thorne did not look at the figures. He looked at the escapement, a brass skeleton of teeth and pivots that hung in the center of the dim workshop, suspended by wires thinner than spider silk. The air in the room was thick, not with heat, but with a fine, white residue...
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