The Wistful Saga
The rain in Leeds in 1912 did not fall so much as it hung, a grey veil that turned the gaslight into a bruised smear against the wet cobblestones. Arthur Vane stood before the great cathedral clock, his breath fogging in the drafty belfry, listening to the heartbeat of the city. It was a sound he had known for twenty years, a steady, mechanical pulse that had synchronized with his own life so...
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