The Wistful Ashes
I was counting the bolts on the hydraulic lock when the light failed, the horn panes of my lantern at eighty-four of Lantern Yard flickering out in the damp, leaving me blind in the queue that stretched back into the dark. My hands were busy, fingers slick with the cold iron, turning the wrench against the rust that had eaten the mechanism over three years of neglect. The rain was not falling;...
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