The Wistful Mountain
The invoice lay on the workbench, its ink still wet, demanding three pounds for the repair of a brass automaton known as the Wistful Mountain. Elias Thorne stared at the sum, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper where the client’s signature, a jagged scrawl from a man in Whitechapel, promised payment only upon the machine’s successful restoration. He was forty-two years old, a clockmaker in...
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