The Golden Suspect
The brass screws numbered seven, the mainspring was coiled tight as a fist, and the minute hand had stopped at three minutes past twelve, a small, rigid refusal that Elias Thorne had spent the last three hours trying to coax into motion. His fingers, stiff with the cold that had seeped through the workshop’s single pane of glass, trembled as he adjusted the jeweler’s loupe, the glass magnifying...
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