The Pale Protocol
14 October 1892. The tremor in my left hand is back, a fine, persistent shiver that makes the escapement wheel dance on its pivot. I have told no one. Not Julian. Not Vane. To admit weakness in the shop is to invite inspection, and I will not have my work dissected by men who see only gears and not the soul within them. Julian is here, bent over the case of the Grand Meridian, his face...
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