The Pale Protocol
October 14, 1893. The iron scent in the air has grown so thick that it coats the back of my throat like a film of rust, and I can taste it even when I am not breathing hard, which is a constant state these days as I move between the workshop and Martha’s bedchamber. She has been confined to that room for three months, her cough a dry, racking thing that shakes the plaster dust from the ceiling,...
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