The Distant Metropolis
The ink was still wet on the final line of my petition when the vibration started, a low, cold hum that traveled up through the mahogany desk and into the bones of my wrist, forcing me to look down at the small porcelain shard I kept in my breast pocket, a jagged piece of blue-and-white glaze that Master Aldous had pressed into my hand the morning he died, his fingers loose and gray as ash,...
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