The Pale Mist
The letter lay on the workbench, its edges curling slightly in the dry air of the shop. It was a bill, thick as a card, printed in red ink that seemed to bleed into the heavy paper. Elias Thorne held it between his thumb and forefinger, the skin of his hand mapped with the fine scars of a man who lived by gears and springs. He had been a clockmaker for twenty years, a trade that required a...
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