The Distant Crown
The letter lay on the workbench, its ink still slightly damp, the paper thick and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the tallow used in the lamp that had illuminated its writing. Elias Thorne held the magnifying glass over the signature, the glass trembling not from age but from the sudden, cold weight of the request written in the mayor’s cramped, authoritative hand: *The Great Clock must be...
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