The Wistful Dinner
The count of the hours was a physical weight in Elias Thorne’s hands, each tick of the escapement a small, cold hammer blow against the silence of the workshop. It was the year of our Lord 1342, and the frost lay thick upon the cobblestones of the city, a damp, biting chill that seeped through the stone walls of the guildhall and settled into the joints of the master clockmaker’s knees. He had...
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